


The Oxford stratagem

by dogandmonkeyshow



Series: Unforgivable Things universe miscellany [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad decisions for good reasons, Family Drama, Gen, Pre-Canon, Waiting to take over the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-07-31 15:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 97,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogandmonkeyshow/pseuds/dogandmonkeyshow
Summary: During his final year at Oxford, Mycroft faces the greatest challenge of his life: pretending to be an ordinary man.





	1. Playing along until you can change the rules of the game

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a prequel, of a kind, to my [Unforgivable Things](https://archiveofourown.org/series/251833) series. No knowledge of those stories is necessary, though.

Mycroft slid into the chair. “Uncle,” he said to the man sitting across from him.

“Mycroft.”

They waited for their waiter to place the napkin on Mycroft’s lap, then slip away.

“How was the Dean’s little get-together?”

Mycroft glanced over his menu to his Uncle Rudy, who had turned his own attention to the wine list. “Fine.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Rudy glanced over to him for a second. Earlier that evening, while preparing to meet his uncle, Mycroft had promised himself that he would make the man ask; he refused to capitulate this early, so didn’t answer the deceptively mild question behind the look.

With a quiet sigh, Rudy closed the wine list and pointedly placed it on the table before turning his full attention to Mycroft, who forced himself to not flinch under the pale, penetrating glare that always reminded him of his mother.

Rudy finally unbent, but Mycroft knew it was the smallest of victories. “Who?”

“Davidson.”

Rudy’s expression—as always—gave Mycroft no indication if he was correct or not. “Why do you think so?”

“He was the only one who didn’t ask about my studies.”

“What makes you think that's significant?”

“He didn't need to because he already knows. How could a man with no affiliation with Oxford know about my course, my marks, the opinions of my tutor? Because he has another source of information.” Mycroft gave his uncle a pointed look.

“What makes you think he cares about that?”

“Because he mentioned Bevan.”

“Perhaps Professor Bevan has been indiscreet.”

“Then Bevan is his source instead of you. Which doesn't answer the question of why he's interested in me.”

“Your logic is circular. What if he doesn't care about you or your studies?”

“Then why talk to me in the first place? And it's Oxford; what else is there to talk about?”

Rudy shrugged. “Perhaps he was the only person in attendance not a prosy bore. Or pretending not to be one.”

“He spent a fair bit of the evening staring at me.”

“Maybe he’s just a queer.”

Mycroft felt his face tighten into a shrewish grimace. _Not this again._ “Not that kind of staring.”

“How would you know the difference?”

He bit back the childish retort that he was neither a virgin nor a fool. He'd learnt the weight and heft of a certain kind of assessment and (usually) dismissal from other people long ago. “He was watching me watch other people.”

The faintest implication of a smile appeared at the corners of his uncle’s eyes, though Mycroft didn’t delude himself into believing it meant he’d necessarily got it right. 

“What do you think that means?”

“He—wasn’t interested in what I was doing or saying to people. He was watching to see the way I was assessing others.” Mycroft paused to marshal his thoughts, his annoyance at the nature of his uncle’s questions fading he redirected inquisition to analysis. “He wasn’t watching me, he was watching my performance as I watched other people. He was judging my ability to observe others while appearing to do something else.”

Now a smile made a brief appearance, just a quick advance and retreat, and as usual Mycroft tamped down his gratitude at the hint of approbation.

After placing their dinner orders, they didn’t immediately resume their conversation and Mycroft waited for any proverbial dangling footwear to fall. He never knew how long these little inquisitions would last. Sometimes one or two questions would satisfy his uncle. On one memorable occasion, the mannered grilling had taken place in a private dining room of Rudy’s club; fuelled by three bottles of wine and numerous brandies, it had lasted well into the night and Mycroft had ended up drunk, befuddled, and borderline belligerent. Once sober, he’d concluded that Rudy had been testing how drunk Mycroft needed to be before losing control of his tongue and/or his temper. So he had no idea if the current pause heralded a change of topic, or was one of his uncle’s regular attempts to unnerve him.

“Were you down at Amberley last weekend?”

“It was Mummy’s birthday; I didn’t have much choice.” Mycroft paused. “You didn’t come,” he added, relishing the distaste the comment elicited.

“Don’t be ridiculous. And you always have a choice.”

Mycroft knew that alluding to the events of seven years ago, and Rudy’s consequent banishment from his younger sister’s household, was hardly a strategy for a harmonious evening, but he hadn't been able to resist the desire to get a little back on his uncle.

“How’s Sherlock?”

“The same.”

“You’re still running the assessments?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

They paused again as Rudy and the sommelier discussed the wine order. One of Mycroft’s favourite aspects of dining with his uncle was the opportunity to learn about the best wine, food, everything he’d been denied by his family’s misfortune and his mother’s obsessive desire to try to make her family seem “ordinary” after the horror of losing Musgrave. Every second with Rudy was an education of some kind, in all of the masteries Mycroft would need to acquire if he were to have the life and career he wanted.

“How is your mother?”

“Also the same.”

“I’m sorry, boy.”

Mycroft shrugged. “She’s not been well.”

“Margaret has always been a hypochondriac. It’s one of the ways she controls the people who care for her.”

Mycroft had lately realised this was one of the levers his mother hoped to exploit to control him for the rest of her life; he was still unsure, both of what he thought his response would be and what he would do if she refused to stop once he did.

Hoping to avoid further discussion of the tensions between his mother and himself, Mycroft changed the subject to one he knew would provide adequate distraction. “Has there been any change with—her?”

“There’s never going to be any change. Except perhaps to worsen.” Rudy glanced up from toying with a fork, navigating the non sequitur with his usual aplomb. “You must let go this notion you have that she’s ever coming home again.”

Mycroft blanched. He didn't know what to say, or if there was anything _to_ say to that. Over the years, Eurus had floated in the back of his mind, part bogey, part absent prodigal, and all conundrum. He'd never been sure if he should try to literally put her out of his mind (as Sherlock had done) or try to force some sort of final resolution to his thoughts. Regardless, he recognised that now was not the time for either, not with Rudy on the prowl.

As he watched his uncle make a fair fist of pretending to absentmindedly fuss with his napkin, Mycroft thought there was something else the man wanted to add, but demurred at the last second; he decided that was good a place as any to let the topic die. His uncle allowed him to move them along to lighter matters, predominantly politics, and as usual Rudy shared a tidbit or two for Mycroft to file away for future use. 

Over the rest of the evening, Rudy regaled Mycroft with another tale of his own rather disreputable years at Cambridge. As the wine flowed, to Mycroft's relief his uncle's tales drifted from the personal to the professional, including a potentially useful piece of advice about a senior official in the Foreign Office, and a scurrilous bit of gossip about the wife of the Governor of the Bank of England. The interrogation seemed to be over, but Mycroft knew to remain vigilant until after they'd parted.

At the end of the evening, as Mycroft pulled on his coat, and the maitre d' was helping his uncle into his own, Rudy give him one of his slightly vulpine smiles. “Do you plan to go home for Christmas?”

“I thought I would; it's the last year I won't have an excuse not to, so it's not much of a sacrifice.”

Rudy nodded as he pulled on his gloves. Just before he stepped out the door, he turned to Mycroft. “Give my regards to your mother when you do.”

“Of course.” Mycroft hid his surprise; Rudy never tried to use him as a go-between with his sister. It was one of the few honourable choices his uncle made.

With a nod his only farewell, Rudy sailed out the door and into his waiting car. As he watched it pull away, Mycroft wondered at the purpose of his uncle's parting words, and wondered at the implication his uncle meant to leave him alone for the rest of the term.

~ + ~

Mycroft loved Oxford. He loved the warm glow of the buildings in the setting sun. He loved the cozy claustrophobia of the alleys between colleges. He loved the high-ceilinged libraries, the art and music that seemed to randomly appear around corners. He had initially considered attending another university, but his father had insisted on his _alma mater_ and Mycroft was glad he had acquiesced in the end, even if he'd insisted on choosing a different college. He hated to think what his life would have been like surrounded by the braying half-wits that made up the majority of Trinity, regardless that he would have followed in the footsteps of his best friend, as well as his father. His choice of Merton was his first foray into real independence, and he'd loved the feel of it from the off. 

His principal disappointment was that in so many ways Oxford was just like school had been: dishearteningly full of stupid, lazy, vulgar young “men”. Idiots who’d grown up in the Thatcher era, the braying, spoilt sons of borderline criminals two generations at most from their loan shark ancestors and the spawn of grasping social climbers desperate to acquire the “right sort” of connections for their thug offspring in an effort to heave their families another quarter of a rung up the social ladder.

In his two years there he hadn't made what others would consider _friends_. A friend would have to be an equal and Mycroft had long known those would be few and far between in his life. But he was on a nodding acquaintance with most of his college, and some of the seemingly thousands of others reading PPE. He attended concerts—a newly-discovered treat after the isolation of his childhood—and studiously avoided the more athletics-minded. Oxford was a microcosm of the world, and he wanted to ensure that he didn't waste his time on people who would be of no use to him in his future career. He'd resolved to only bother with people who would matter in the future, and ensuring that they remembered him, just as he would remember the more egregious idiots who managed to leverage their family connections into cushy jobs. And he knew to avoid the Union and its coterie of thrusting, striving future politicians; they were irrelevant, so a waste of his time. They were all so vulgar, anyway, that he considered it no loss.

His tutor was an adequate, if unimaginative economic historian of fustian habits and almost incomprehensible instruction. Mycroft forgave him his ludicrous opinions on the Cuban Missile Crisis in exchange for regular access to his wife's always-excellent baking. Overall, Mycroft was content in his life and his studies. The only source of concern for him was his secret. All his secrets, really. He knew that beyond the shame of his family's recent past, the unconventionality of his personal life was going to lead to awkward questions. At some point, likely soon, his uncle would feel compelled to escalate his campaign on addressing the issue, and Mycroft's resistance would be unlikely to prevail. 

He'd occasionally wondered if the lack of female companionship in his life wouldn't undo his best efforts, but he reassured himself that his obvious dedication to his studies would allay any doubts in the minds of anyone observing him. After all, it wasn't as though male companionship featured in his life, either. At least, not the sort that his uncle obsessed over. For Mycroft knew that he was being observed. Vetted. And not just by his uncle and his subordinates.

Mycroft felt he'd been waiting for this, preparing for it, forever. He knew that change was coming. He could scent it in the air: the sharp tang of expectation, of impatience, of _waiting_ for this stage of his life to just be over already, so that he could move on, casting off the husk of his past as he emerged into the world where he really belonged.

Three terms. Three more terms, then exams, then he’d be _done_. No more school, childhood, awkwardness, immaturity, stupidity, wastefulness, confusion, and people who didn’t appreciate him.

Mycroft could see the flow of his future from Oxford to public service; his path was being laid out. He would slip into some minor position in some obscure part of the Foreign Office (for there was never any question of him being wasted on the Home Office, not with his extraordinary facility with foreign languages). He would subtly manoeuvre his way into the place he needed to be to move up. His mind, his dedication, and his talents would not go to waste; his path was clear and he was ready for it. Mycroft relished the prospect of that moment, the only thing in his life he truly desired. 

For there was no doubt he was going to be chosen. The real examination had begun more than a year ago, though he doubted the figures shadowing him knew that he’d noticed their presence on the periphery of his life, disappearing the moment he turned his attention to them. But they would get bolder with each test he passed, and soon he would be face to face with his future. 

~ + ~

His first two terms at Merton, Mycroft had almost enjoyed dining in college. The formality, the ritual, had once possessed a certain charm for him. Now it was just a chore: the droning bores at the head table, the incessant animalistic chatter, the competitive flirting and “banter”, the utter stupidity of his college-mates. Mycroft’s inability to ignore the almost physical assault of the noise and heat and crushing boredom made him feel like an inmate in a poorly-designed, neglected zoo. It had taken him months to learn how to cope once he'd recognised what a bestial stew it was.

His real dilemma had been learning how to deal with people he couldn't afford to ignore, for social or future career reasons. And to his chagrin, one of them had spied the empty seats across the table from him and with her best friend trailing behind, made a beeline for them.

“Mycroft,” Amanda Fitzhugh said as she sat.

“Amanda. Kate,” Mycroft added to her grumpy companion. She was likely upset that Amanda had dragged her away from the boy she herself was pursuing. Kate didn't bother replying, instead turning her attention to her own target, located three seats down the table.

“How was your summer?” Amanda asked.

“Fine. Quiet. And yours?” he just remembered to add. “Did you spend it in Yorkshire?”

“Some. I spent quite a bit of time in London, actually.”

Mycroft could tell from her hopeful expression that she wanted him to ask why, but he didn't need to; he already knew she'd spent most of the summer dating the heir to a minor earldom. She'd likely spent most of the summer hanging around town, waiting for the oaf to pay attention to her, and the prospect of listening to her attempt to engender his jealousy over it made Mycroft seriously consider stabbing himself in the eye with his salad fork.

Amanda was one the few people Mycroft had known reasonably well at school, and was the only one currently at Merton. She had always been one of his more problematic acquaintances; her father was a significant behind-the-scenes player at the Exchequer, and her older brother had already launched himself onto the lower rungs of the ladder he likely assumed he would climb in their father’s wake.

The young woman herself was an entirely unremarkable example of a daughter of the officer class. In other words, exactly the sort of young woman most mothers would want their sons to bring home. With one glance, Mycroft could see Amanda’s future: head of a dying WI branch in Berkshire, parent-teacher meetings, church fêtes, fundraising for her daughter’s pony club, chair of some suburban art gallery or library board. The pedestrian ordinariness of it would have made him pity her if it wasn’t exactly the life she'd been dreaming of since she was a little girl.

“Did you manage to have any fun at all?” Amanda asked, breaking through his thoughts. She was attempting, and failing at, light-hearted teasing that to Mycroft's ears sounded more like desperation.

“Fun,” he intoned as he turned his attention back to his dinner, “was not on the agenda, unfortunately.”

The one almost interesting thing about Amanda Fitzhugh was that at some point in the previous term she had come to the ludicrous notion that Mycroft was Marriage Material, and had since pursued what she probably thought was a subtle stealth campaign of planting herself in his mind as a candidate for the same. This surprised him to no end. He’d observed no other symptoms of madness or masochism in her character; he doubted she possessed the imagination, and if she had he’d have thought more highly of her than he did. And as he hadn't been able to help overhearing her conversation with Kate at lunch, shouted over the din, it appeared that her dalliance with Lord Moran's heir had ended. So she was turning her attentions back to Mycroft, to his chagrin.

“That's too bad.” She was obviously stumped by the terseness of his reply, and Mycroft recognised he might have been a little too short with her. Damage control, in the form of a white lie, was in order.

“My mother was ill, so that kept me close to home.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I hadn't heard.”

He shrugged and put on a stoic face that he knew would make her uncomfortable enough to let the topic drop without thinking herself hard done by.

The most irritating aspect of his current situation was his inability to just get rid of her. Upsetting her could be career suicide. As problems went, it was a minor one, but an annoyance just the same, and one more thing he really did not need on his plate at the moment. He hoped she hadn’t invested too much in setting her cap at him, because she was not going to get what she seemed to think she wanted.

As he ate, Mycroft felt Amanda’s attention periodically turn back to him and he pointedly kept his focus firmly on the food in front of him.

One of Mycroft's more successful strategies for avoiding just this kind of conversation had been to develop a public persona as a humourless bore, one who brought honours to the college, was beloved of (if usually feared by) the masters, and who could be ignored in most social situations. As usual, it worked; disheartened, Amanda turned her attention back to Kate and Mycroft was left in peace to engage in his usual activity when in close quarters with his college-mates: observing, unnoticed, the bewildering social maelstrom going on around him.

Dull, dull, dull, dull, _dull_.

Eventually, the increasingly uncomfortable meal was finally over and he was released from the purgatory of Amanda’s surreptitious, yearning examination. He could tell she was about to make another one of her ham-fisted attempts at stilted conversations, so Mycroft escaped with alacrity to his room. His first paper of the term for Bevan was due in the morning, and the last thing he wanted was Amanda wasting his time.

~ + ~

Professor Bevan pointed at the paper he and Mycroft had been discussing, while Fletcher and Li, who shared Mycroft's tutorial, waited their turns. While Mycroft would freely admit it hadn't been his best effort, it was likely at least 30% better than the rest of the early-in-the-term dreck Bevan would have received that week. Even so, Bevan's disdain for Mycroft's (admittedly paltry) efforts didn't take a genius to deduce. 

“I realise you place little value on my advice, Holmes—” Bevan held up a hand to ward off Mycroft’s (polite, entirely false) protests. “But there is _always_ a paper on the partition of India. You’re going to learn to cope, or you’re going to fail it, my boy.”

One of the persistent banes of Mycroft’s existence as a PPE student was the history of the Raj and its disintegration. No matter what he did, the subject instantly sent him into a narcoleptic fit. In his mind, it made up an entirely disproportionate amount of the curriculum, considering the purpose of the program was supposed to be preparing people to govern in the 21st century, not the 19th. To Mycroft’s mind, other than as an object lesson in how _not_ to do anything, the Raj was a complete waste of his time. 

Not for the first (nor fiftieth) time, Mycroft wished he lived in ancient Athens or some other place and time where he could study what he wanted, without having to worry about the tedious bureaucratic hoop-jumping of exams designed to arrange the mediocre into a stratigraphy of appropriate future (limited) prospects. He hated that he couldn't just transition into his role as future leader based on his own obvious merits. All this administrative faff was _boring_.

He eyed the plate of biscuits while Bevan launched into the most recent in a long line of blistering critiques of Mycroft's work. Li seemed to be trying to retreat through the back of his chair, in anticipation of his own share of Welsh sarcasm, while Fletcher's Australian sense of humour was starting to show. They'd both learnt long ago to not express an opinion on Mycroft's work unless they wanted to draw his attentions to their own, so the conversation remained a duet.

While Bevan droned on, Mycroft watched him carefully, and thought back to his conversation with Rudy the week before. He retained a deceptively bland expression of attentive interest as his tutor's words rolled over him, while he pondered the possibility that Bevan was involved in his ongoing vetting.

On one hand, it made sense that his tutor would be; after all, who at Oxford knew him better? On the other, Mycroft had difficulty imagining anyone who less resembled the self-contained, polished, reptilian discretion of his uncle and (Mycroft imagined) the other men who inhabited his world.

If a third hand had been available, Mycroft would utilise it to wonder how, or if, Bevan could know anything of any real value about him. The man was just an ordinary Oxford don with the usual blinkered worldview common to academics. No, Mycroft reasoned, he needn't worry about anything Bevan might have to say about him, if indeed anyone else was even interested.

~ + ~

There was a happy surprise waiting for Mycroft when he picked up his mail on the way out to his econometrics lecture: a letter from his old school friend Harry Abernathy. A lieutenant in the Queen's Regiment for the last two years, Harry had been stationed in Northern Ireland. But the letter bore a London postmark, so Mycroft knew his friend was home again.

Resisting the temptation to stop and read it immediately, Mycroft tucked the letter away in his bag and headed up Blue Boar Street on his way to his first lecture of the day. 

To Mycroft’s annoyance, the classroom was near full and the few seats available were either at the very front or next to people he avoided. Picking the least-awful option, he took the seat next to David Rutherford, another former Marlborough student and one of the most trying people Mycroft had ever known. As their mothers had been best friends since _their_ school days, David had been trying Mycroft’s patience for most of their lives.

Mycroft wondered if the empty seat next to David wasn’t an accident. The false surprise of his “Oh, hi,” as Mycroft sat provided the answer.

He answered the implied conversational opening with nothing but a nod as he resolutely stared ahead to where Professor Tam launched into his lecture with his usual hand-waving. Already ahead on the reading, Mycroft prepared to wile away the next two hours working out the probabilities of the aggressive gesticulation being the man’s idea of interpretive dance, or simply a physical manifestation of his attempts to hammer understanding of quite straightforward mathematical and statistical concepts into the mush-filled heads of undergraduates.

“This is lucky,” David whispered, leaning over. Not taking his eyes off the professor (the man kept pieces of chalk in his pockets for hurling at the inattentive, and his aim was flawless), Mycroft forced himself to neither recoil nor roll his eyes. “Mum asked me to ask you—” David paused as Professor Tam turned his bulldog eyes to them and made a particularly emphatic hammering gesture as the Malay-accented river of words continuing unabated.

To Mycroft’s relief, David pulled back; to amuse himself, Mycroft wondered if he could make Tam’s head explode by pulling out the letter from Harry and openly reading it while the man lectured. Then he realised the resulting bureaucratic headaches would eliminate any potential satisfaction, so decided to not bother.

To his left, David diligently scratched away, making a (probably) poor attempt to transcribe ideas that would be beyond him even if they hadn’t been shouted at him in an accent likely as thick as it had been when its owner had first arrived in Oxford as a graduate student twenty-seven years before.

Throughout the rest of the lecture, Mycroft tried to ignore the slight murmur of unease at the back of his mind; David wanting to talk to him wasn’t a good sign, especially if at his dragon mother’s command.

As the lecture broke up, Mycroft scrambled to his feet in an attempted escape, but the pitiable pleading on David’s face, combined with the bollocking he knew he’d receive from his mother once word got back to her if he bolted, stayed him.

“Do you have a minute?” David asked as he shoved his notebook into his bag. Mycroft answered by not pretending he hadn’t heard and making a break for the door. “Um—my mum wanted me to ask you—my birthday’s coming up and they’re coming to take me to dinner.” Mycroft groaned internally at David’s half-hearted attempt at a grimace, a poor attempt to intimate the idea bored and appalled him. Even if well executed, Mycroft would have known it a sham; David had always adored his insufferable mother and buffoon father. “They asked me to invite some friends along,” David added, finally getting to his point.

Mycroft waited two seconds for an _actual_ invitation to be issued, before swallowing his annoyance. “I’m assuming that was an invitation—” 

“Oh, sorry, of course. Silly of—” 

“Yes, I’ll come to your birthday dinner.” _You annoying twit_, Mycroft added in his head. It would be tedious. It would be a waste of his time. But it would be good practice for the socialising with bores he would have to do in his future career, Mycroft justified to himself as a voice in the back of his head screamed its dismay at the prospect.

As their classmates made their escapes, Mycroft continued to watch David stare up at him, and he wondered if he would have to prompt the idiot to tell him where and when this extravaganza of pain would be taking place. To prod him, Mycroft expressed his annoyance in the form of a “Well, what?” look; it took a couple of seconds to sink in, then David finally glanced away, blushing.

“Um, I’ll let you know where and when next week,” David eventually managed to sputter out.

“Until then,” Mycroft muttered, then was finally able to take his leave.

Heading back to Merton, he ambled the lanes north of Christ Church, dodging cyclists as he read Harry’s letter.

_Mycroft Holmes_  
Merton College  
Oxford OX1 4JD 

_Dear Mycroft,_

_I’m writing from our new regimental headquarters – in the Tower! Very exciting to be back home and I’m sure an anti-romantic like you would be able to appreciate the history of the place (chop chop!). As I imagine you _haven’t_ been following the army news, the Queen’s has been amalgamated with the Royal Hampshires to form a new regiment: the Princess of Wales’ Royals, with our HQ in London. In a curious aside: our new colours are almost exactly the same as Trinity’s, so it’s almost like being back at uni again. But with more guns._

_I’ve been back from NI since the beginning of September. Lots of bureaucratic nonsense to deal with (I can’t believe you want to deal with this sort of thing every day) or I’d have written sooner. Usual Army: hurry up and wait, double time!_

_Anyway, I’ve a month’s leave coming up and I plan on spending a fair bit of it at the Tomlinsons’, so will be just up the road from you. We should meet for dinner once I’m up in Oxon. I’m planning to be up there as of the 10th (but who knows, with the Army)._

_Let me know your plans._

_Cheers,_

_Harry_

Smiling, Mycroft folded the letter and returned it to his bag just as he reached the Merton gates. Harry home was good news, though Mycroft’s satisfaction was tempered by the knowledge that Harry’s relationship with the odious Suzanne Tomlinson had progressed to the point where he’d want to spend the bulk of his leave with her family. With a sigh, Mycroft waited for a group of first-years to pass before entering the relative sanctuary of the college. He hoped that Harry would have the sense to leave his harpy behind when they dined together; Harry was the closest thing to a real friend Mycroft had and the thought he might lose that friendship because of a woman dismayed him.

~ + ~

Four days later, Mycroft was surprised to receive a note from Rudy. His uncle had asked him to come to town Saturday and dine with him at his club.

Such an invitation always meant trouble of some kind. Calling Mycroft down to London meant there was some issue Rudy felt needed immediate discussion, that couldn’t wait until he found the time to come to Oxford himself. This never boded well, in Mycroft’s experience. 

So with a certain trepidation he made the short train journey early Saturday evening and was met by his uncle’s car at Paddington. By the time he’d reached the plush reception room of the small club, Mycroft has managed to extrapolate, review, and discard eleven possible reasons for his uncle’s anxiety. All that remained were two plausible causes: that there was to be another of Rudy’s tests/interrogations and that it was one that required privacy, or there was some family crisis that his uncle believed required Mycroft’s involvement. Without more data, he wasn’t sure which he might prefer.

Consequently, he wasn’t surprised to be ushered into one of the club’s private dining rooms. These were decorated in the acme of lower upper-class taste ca. 1930, and while Mycroft had always thought the rooms somewhat bland, they had seemed more lived-in than Rudy’s sterile modernist flat, which had hardly seemed occupied any time Mycroft had visited.

Rudy was waiting for him, but did not immediately acknowledge Mycroft’s arrival; instead, he was staring into the empty fireplace, cradling a whisky and looking as though someone had just burned his beloved Victorian pornography collection in front of him. In lieu of a greeting, Mycroft helped himself to a whisky and took the other chair in front of the fire.

While Mycroft waited for his uncle to acknowledge his arrival, he examined the other man for clues as to which of his two theories was correct, but could see nothing that obviously pointed towards one supposition or the other.

The continuing silence was a test in itself, Mycroft knew, so he sat back and prepared for a long wait; Rudy had never yet been bested at staring or waiting, to Mycroft’s knowledge, so it seemed foolhardy to contest the matter.

After three increasingly-tense minutes, at the end of which Mycroft began to feel real concern about what might be the cause of his uncle’s uncharacteristically rude behaviour, Rudy sighed and turned to Mycroft. “My apologies. It has been a trying day.”

Mycroft had no response to that, so didn’t bother with empty pleasantries, but nodded in acknowledgement of the apology, which seemed to induce Rudy to take the floor.

“Today I had lunch with a gentleman who has recently been intimating some interest in your future.” Mycroft started; his uncle’s tone bordered on the portentous. “He had some rather direct—and entirely reasonable—questions about you.” Rudy continued, dropping his voice a half-octave on the last two words. Mycroft couldn’t help being amused by the melodrama, but kept that to himself.

When his uncle refrained from continuing, Mycroft asked (though he knew the gist of the answer), “What sort of questions?” He tried to force himself not to succumb to dismay when his uncle didn’t allay his fears right away, but resumed his silent staring at nothing. It appeared they were going to have another in a long line of _that_ kind of conversation.

Behind them the door opened, breaking the tension. A club servant was wheeling in a cart and once he was done setting out their dinner, Rudy dismissed him with an imperious twitch of his fingers. 

A minute or so after they were seated at the small table, Rudy returned to their conversation as if there’d been no interruption. “He asked me if you were a queer.”

Mycroft delicately coughed up the olive he’d almost choked on, then forced his expression into one of meditative blandness before swallowing both the fruit and his reflexive retort that he was most definitely not “a queer”, as he had no more romantic interest in men than in women. It appeared that Rudy’s persistent inability to understand the distinction continued unabated, which Mycroft had always found surprising, considering the man's own peccadillos. “And what was your reply?”

“I lied.” When Mycroft didn’t respond, he continued. “I said that you are seeing someone, and I implied that there might be family interference if the relationship were widely known, hence your discretion. So bloody well go out and find yourself a girlfriend, boy.”

Any relief Mycroft might have felt at the reprieve was knocked sideways by his uncle’s obvious annoyance. He knew he was scowling like a child, so subtly shifted his expression to one of contemplative concern, as if he were giving the matter consideration. Internally he seethed. He knew he mostly should be angry with himself: Rudy had had been banging on for over a year that this issue would arise during his vetting by The Powers That Be. In the back of his mind Mycroft had always resisted the necessity of it, though; he'd lulled himself into believing his exceptional talents would cause them to turn a blind eye. It had been childish and irresponsible to do so, but the _weariness_ the subject had always engendered had drawn him into the seduction of procrastination.

His impulse still was to put his foot down, declare this his line in the sand. But he knew he wouldn’t, even though the kind of cheap pretense Rudy was proposing repelled him, and pretending a romantic attachment seemed such a vulgar lie, no matter the advantages it might bring. He'd long known he'd have to do something to draw the bloodhounds off the scent, so either it was Rudy's plan or give up on the career he wanted (and deserved), and that was unthinkable.

“What was her name?” Mycroft eventually asked, unblinking under the barrage of Rudy’s close examination. He was glad to see the flicker of an almost-smirk as Rudy immediately caught the reference. It was almost a salute, but Mycroft couldn't tell if it was acknowledging Mycroft raising his game towards Rudy's level, or descending into gutter tactics. When no other response seemed likely to come, Mycroft decided in for a penny, in for a pound. “How did you arrange your own personal drawing-room farce? How far did you go with each one? Intercourse? Perhaps an engagement or two?”

Rudy's answering moue and faint sigh were the worst kind of sham. “Please tell me you don't think yourself in love with that Abernathy boy—” 

“Oh, don't bother, Rudy,” Mycroft snapped back. “I can't believe you've descended that far into projection.”

“You're making a fool of yourself.”

Mycroft couldn't tell if that comment referred to his supposed infatuation with his friend or his protests at Rudy's stubbornly ill-informed opinions. “This is a ridiculous waste of time. Not that any of this matters at all anymore. The Cold War is over. It's a new world, different than the one you—”

“Oh, do shut up.” Rudy dismissed Mycroft's shock with a wave. “Every time you open your mouth these days, I think you're more stupid than the last time. If this is what Oxford is doing to you, I'd be tempted to say leave now.”

Rudy's apparent serene unconcern was the perfect evidence of how upset he really was. His eerie grey-green-blue eyes, the exact shade of his younger sister's, stared across at him, noting every flinch, twitch, acceleration of heart rate, and quickening breath, logging every somatic datum Mycroft tried and failed to deny him and judging him a failure. For this and so much else.

Mycroft knew immediately that he'd hit a nerve with his uncle. Even though they'd drawn equal blood, he forced himself to not gloat even in his own mind, because Rudy had the nous to see it on his face if he was even _thinking_ it. Rudy was unaccustomed to Mycroft standing up for himself or calling him out on his hypocrisies, so he didn't respond immediately, but Mycroft knew he had him on the back foot. He wished he'd better prepared his assault strategy so that he could take advantage of this rare opportunity.

Rudy was still waiting for Mycroft's reply to the rare loss of control they'd both displayed, and Mycroft decided to let him stew for a few minutes. He turned his attention back to his niçoise salad, humming the overture to The Marriage of Figaro inside his head to give his mind something to focus on while he waited. When he looked up a minute later, Rudy had followed suit. The game had moved in another direction and Mycroft was curious where they would end up. He knew that to an outside observer the tableau would appear boring, entirely benign except for the unnatural heavy quiet between them.

Two minutes later Mycroft realised he'd made a fundamental tactical error: allowing Rudy to play the waiting game turned their battle to one of his strengths, which would allow him to eventually dictate the terms of engagement. Mycroft gave himself a mental smack in the head; he could tell from Rudy's little smirk that he'd seen Mycroft's little epiphany on his face.

“Dullards are made uneasy by what they perceive to be an excess of chastity. More so than the opposite, which is easier for the limited mind to grasp. That, combined with your unfortunate belief in your own superiority,” Rudy said quietly as he lifted the cover of a dish to inspect the contents. “Even if it's true—which it won't always be—it never serves to let people think you hold yourself above them. And that temper of yours is going to be as significant a problem in the future as your squeamishness.”

Mycroft just cocked an eyebrow in response to the blatant hypocrisy of that statement, while hiding his surprise at what was probably the first (almost) apology his uncle had ever given him.

“You think I'm a hypocrite—oh, don't bother—you're hardly difficult to read, my boy. But answer me this: did my little pretense of temper increase or decrease your inclination to listen to the ideas being communicated?” Mycroft had no reply to that he thought might be helpful, so was still silent as Rudy continued as he spooned vegetables onto his plate. “No, I didn't think so.”

“You called me to London so that you could scold me like an intemperate schoolboy.”

“I have—I do not understand why you're fighting me on this.” His uncle's frustration became palpable, breaking through his usual calm veneer. “Do you really not understand the situation? Are you so cut off from the world that you don't know the realities you'll face in Whitehall?” Rudy paused to collect himself. “I want you to achieve—everything, Mycroft. I want you to get to the very top, the place even the connected people have only heard rumours about. I do not want you to waste your talents running some department, filling in forms and having your mind killed by the tedium of ordinary administration.” Rudy leant across the table and Mycroft was startled by what was either an extraordinary performance or surprising sincerity. “You must go beyond that. But to get there, you have to pretend to be ordinary. Brilliant, but ordinary. At least at the start. When you get to the top, people won't care about your little idiosyncrasies; they'll think they're amusing quirks, the meaningless part of the package that goes along with that brain of yours.” Rudy gestured with his knife. “But until then—you have to _try_, boy. Is it really that much to ask, considering the rewards that would be within your grasp?”

Of all the tactics Mycroft thought his uncle might employ, he'd never guessed that begging would be one of them. He quite simply had no idea how to respond to the sight; the very idea of it made him intensely uncomfortable. So he focused on the words, not his uncle's startling delivery of them, just as Rudy had so dramatically instructed him to.

“The rules are changing. In ten years—”

“Don't be stupid.” The pleading had been replaced by the Scott temper Mycroft was more used to seeing from his mother. “You know the rules only matter so much in that world; we're talking about people's beliefs, the things that actually influence their decisions. Logic and rules have nothing to do with it, and nothing changes more slowly than people's beliefs. Have you paid _no_ attention to what I've been saying for the past three years? Your idiosyncrasies—” 

Mycroft paused to marshal his response, carefully choosing the words. “_My_ idiosyncrasies? If we're going to discuss secrets, perhaps you shouldn't be pointing the finger, uncle.”

He hadn't meant to say it out loud; he'd always known the power and value of that information and he couldn't believe he'd been so lax as to waste it on this moment. The expression on his uncle's face told Mycroft all he needed about whether or not Rudy had known that Mycroft was aware of his “secret”. But Mycroft had to grudgingly admire the speed with which the man's dismay disappeared from view, almost in the blink of an eye, to be replaced by his usual smooth, preternatural restraint.

“As I was saying, your idiosyncrasies will mark you out from the crowd in a way that will do your reputation no good. You're already suffering under the burden of your birth; my sister's decision to marry so far beneath her is a handicap you have the ability to overcome if you have no other marks against you. But this, whatever it is you want to call it—” Rudy made a vague, dismissive gesture with his dinner knife and the vulgarity of the gesture surprised Mycroft. “—will limit you. For years you've claimed your ambitions are congruent with your talents and potential—yes, still only potential—and now you're telling me you'll be happy striving to the middle. Have you lost your stomach for the fight? Because if you have, please do me the courtesy of telling me now so that I know to not bother wasting any more time on you.”

Mycroft felt the blood drain from his face. “Of course not,” he replied, choosing his tone with care.

Rudy stared across the table at him, a cat deciding if the mouse was to die now or be set free and allowed to revel in its escape before being recaptured and killed. Mycroft refused to be cowed by it and stared right back. Obviously satisfied with what he saw, Rudy sat back in his chair, though the tension hovering over the meal remained.

“I like to think I've managed to teach you a thing or two over the years. I like to think you know that in the world you desire to gain access to that the rules of ordinary life don't apply. If you are to achieve the position your talents indicate you might legitimately aspire to, then other people's prejudices will be much more influential on your career than you will like. And climbing to those levels will require very careful positioning in the earliest years of your career, or the opportunity to step on that path will be gone before you even knew it was there.”

_And there it is_, Mycroft realised, the real reason behind Rudy's efforts over the years. 

Mycroft wasn’t surprised that once the truth was out in the open (if indeed it was the truth) that the foundation of their argument had been, in essence, Rudy making all of this about himself. His ambitions. His past. His failures, and the cost he’d paid for those failures.

Tempted as he was to throw all of that in his uncle’s face, he knew he shouldn't allow himself to become distracted, so Mycroft just nodded in acknowledgement of the (purported) sentiment behind Rudy’s words. He knew that by doing so, Mycroft might in the short term be able to deceive his uncle that he was acquiescing to the man’s demands. Accounts would be kept, though, and Mycroft would be held to them, but that was a problem for the future. In that moment, he just wanted out of that room, and away from this conversation so that he could sort it out in his head in peace. 

Mycroft also knew he needed to escape before the roiling volcano of anger in his guts crawled its way up his throat and threatened to leap out of his mouth, destroying the almost-calm that had been restored to the room. But storming out in a huff would accomplish nothing other than proving his uncle’s slanders about his temper, so he knew he had to bear it until his uncle decided the meeting was over. In an attempt to hide his anger, Mycroft turned his attention back to his meal, joylessly progressing through the courses without tasting them, making only token responses to his uncle. 

Rudy made little effort to continue their previous conversation, to Mycroft’s surprise. He wondered if the man had surprised himself with his little “revelation”; if it were genuine it would have been out of character for him to have done so. But Mycroft wasn’t yet sure if he believed it was and couldn’t help wondering if his uncle’s reticence was part of the play, an attempt to convince Mycroft of his sincerity. Mycroft decided to leave the matter for later, when he could think more clearly on it. He wasn’t sure which response would work more in his favour: his uncle believing that Mycroft accepted the truth of his little “slip”, or believing that he didn’t.

~ + ~

On the train back to Oxford, Mycroft found it difficult to focus on the substance of his conversation with Rudy. Residual anger at his uncle’s obstreperous hypocrisy simmered through Mycroft’s bloodstream like a virus, clouding his mind and drawing his focus away from the analysis he needed to complete in order to devise a response. He knew this was an indulgence he could ill afford, but it was cathartic to liberate his emotions, even for just a few minutes, and allow himself a profound sulk at the unfairness of it all.

And that was what stung the most, the unfairness. Why should he have to make sacrifices that no one else had to make, he wondered. Why was it always him that was expected to carry the extra burden? And this all so that unimaginative idiots wouldn't be frightened by someone who wasn't exactly like them. Heaven forbid that halfwits might have to try to stretch themselves to comprehend something so simple. At his lowest point over the next hour, Mycroft wondered why he even bothered if he were going to have to spend his career with idiots like that.

But he knew why. Those idiots populated the lower and middle orders of the structure he would have to ascend to get where he deserved to be. Everyone at or near the top had to make that same journey, and Mycroft acknowledged that _this_ would be the greatest test of his career: refusing to give in to the impulse to thin out a bit of the dead wood as he passed through the mire of ordinariness that would be the early years of his career.

He needed to think of it as a test, a challenge that required a strategy and the further development of his acting skills. Rudy was right, Mycroft knew in his heart: his temper would be the end of him if he didn't learn to get it under control. Railing about the unfairness of the universe would hardly help. The system was rigged and Mycroft would have to just play along until he was in a position to change the rules of the game.

Once the more reasonable part of his mind manoeuvred him into this point of view, his anger shifted its focus. His thoughts resolved themselves into two quarrelsome factions which soon were wrestling for dominance in the arena of his mind. One, powered by his frustration at his continuing inability to convince Rudy of the folly of his demands, crashed around the inside of Mycroft’s skull like a drunk City broker on a stag weekend. The other, driven by a grim resignation at the likelihood that Rudy was correct, sniped from the sidelines like a discontented housewife. But Mycroft eventually recognised that Rudy was right: his complete lack of interest in “romantic” relationships expected for a man his age was drawing the wrong sort of interest from people he couldn’t afford to alienate if he were to obtain the future he desired.

In the final analysis—loath as he was to admit it, even in the privacy of his own mind—Mycroft accepted that Rudy had a point, regardless of how great a complication it would add to his life. The hypocrisy of his uncle’s position still rankled, though. One half of Mycroft's mind told him to get past it, and the other clung on, desperate to salvage something from their battles. A little pride, perhaps.

This had been coming ever since Rudy's reappearance in his life three years ago: a rising battle of wills that still usually resulted in Mycroft capitulating. Some of the more memorable events in Mycroft's childhood had featured battles between his mother and her older brother, trading surgical strikes over the dinner table while Mycroft and his father had watched, cringing in their metaphorical corner. Mycroft couldn't remember a time when his mother and uncle had got along, so he'd always assumed that the war had been established before he was born.

Once Sherlock arrived, then Eurus hard on his heels ten months later, their mother had used them as a kind of human shield, as if it were inherently gauche of Rudy to dare question the views of someone who had “done her bit” passing the Scott DNA to another generation.

Invariably, after the verbal artillery bombardments had passed and a kind of false peace had settled over Musgrave, his mother would retreat to her study, followed by her clucking, consoling husband, and Rudy would be the one to seek out Mycroft and apologise for having made him witness another round of sibling rivalry. And once Rudy had left, his mother would pretend none of it had happened, enveloped as she was in her delusion she could make their facade of Happy Families real by force of will alone.

Mycroft was ten when his mother told him the “truth” about Rudy, why he'd never married, and had no children. Mycroft had always assumed it was another exhibition of her spite, after a particularly telling defeat (something to do with Eurus, but Mycroft could never remember what, exactly). Even as a ten year old, Mycroft had known vindictiveness when he saw it, and had refused to believe it until a few months later when, secretly eavesdropping on his parents, he heard his father confirm his mother's slanders. The grief of having his idol knocked from his pedestal had sent Mycroft into a fit of self-loathing and he'd gained half a stone that summer, the beginning of his life-long battle with food as consolation.

Ever since he'd had his uncle's little _peculiarity_ thrust upon him, Mycroft had never been able to reconcile that knowledge with the prim, perfectly ordinary-seeming man Rudy presented to the world. In the intervening decades, Mycroft had kept surreptitious watch for any signs of prissiness, effeminacy, mincing or other behaviours Mycroft thought would naturally be associated with the urge to wear woman's clothing in secret. But he'd seen nothing. If what his mother and father had said were true, Rudy had developed an excellent game for hiding it.

Because Rudy seemed the dullest Whitehall type anyone could imagine. Still handsome in his early sixties, he exuded an aura of fastidious ordinariness that seemed to belie the family tales about him. Mycroft had never been able to figure out if his uncle's public presentation as a quiet, ceaselessly dedicated civil servant was the truth or the persona. He had never seen him in anything other than a perfectly tailored bespoke suit, and Mycroft was unable to imagine the man in country wear, much less _women's_ wear. 

Even when Mycroft was a child, in the days Rudy had still been (coldly) received into his sister's home, he'd always been dressed as if rural Wiltshire had been a way station between Whitehall and his home in Chelsea. Rudy had never seemed comfortable in the somewhat ramshackle existence of the Holmeses. Looking back on those days, Mycroft realised what it must have cost him to make that effort, and that Mycroft himself was the reason why Rudy had been willing to pay the price. For Rudy had never exhibited any interest in Sherlock or Eurus, the children most like his sister. 

As the train trundled west, Mycroft stared out into the dark of rural Oxfordshire, rain tearing across the windows and distorting his reflection into a simulacrum of grief that made him think of a badly-thought out visual effect in a television melodrama. The triteness was irritating, so he leant back in his chair, folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes. 

He couldn't hold off the crowding memories as they rushed into his mind, elbowing aside the matters he needed to be thinking about. He was almost tempted to continue the delusional comfort that nothing he and Rudy had discussed mattered. He immediately forced himself to acknowledge that sentiment was beneath someone of his intellect. At the very least, he had to acknowledge that Rudy likely thought he was helping: forcing Mycroft to recognise the reality of his situation, and advising what he saw as the best possible course of action in the circumstances. The fact that Rudy communicated these ideas with the unalloyed bluntness that Scotts reserved for family shouldn't distract him, Mycroft knew. 

In a way—a much less murderous and fraught way—it reminded him of the events at Musgrave that horrible early autumn seven years ago. Rudy was again elbowing his way into other people's lives and trying to take over. 

The moment he thought it, Mycroft knew he was being unfair. But it never ceased to vex him how that horrible week still periodically reached up out of his past to grab him around the ankles and trip him up when he least expected, sending his heart racing.

Rudy had stepped in then, as well, taking over from Mycroft's hysterical mother and ineffectual father. He'd done what needed to be done, even though he'd probably known his sister would never forgive him for it. And since Mycroft had left school, finally out from under his mother's thumb and able to begin an independent life, Rudy had swanned back into it as if the years since Musgrave hadn't happened.

Part of Mycroft knew that his uncle's current demands were most likely motivated by what he thought was best for him. That didn't make them any more palatable.

By the time the train pulled into Oxford station, Mycroft not only knew, but accepted, that his uncle was right. For at least the next few years, Mycroft was going to have to pretend to be “normal”, or at least some version of it that would give the shadowy judges hovering on the periphery of his life an excuse to overlook some of his more peculiar peculiarities. 

As he strode out of the station and opened his umbrella, Mycroft sighed as his mind's final defences were breached. Much as he loathed the very idea, he was going to have to find someone he could convince to accept him as a suitor, and pretend to woo her. He couldn't help but feel a moment of pre-emptive sympathy for whoever he managed to con into his game, but there was no alternative to his dilemma that he could see.

~ + ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on tagging: this story is classified as Gen. There is a relationship depicted in the story, but the story isn't about the relationship, per se. I went back and forth as to whether or not I'd call it Gen or Mycroft/OC; eventually I came down on the side of calling it Gen, because it has none of the characteristics of shipfic and the relationship isn't the focus of the story. Also, I'm being a bit hand-wavy about the current rating (Mature); there's one scene where part of it, looked at from a certain angle, might seem a bit Explicit-y...*shrugs*. I'll warn later for the almost-but-not-quite-but-sort-of-explicit content later for those who'd like to skip it.


	2. An emotionally constipated loser weirdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finds a possible way forward with Rudy's plan.

In the week that followed his most recent confrontation with his uncle, Mycroft had little time for further thought on both the issues that had been brought up and the logical consequences of accepting Rudy's pronouncements. The term was in full swing and Mycroft allowed himself to be buried in work: lectures, reading, the grinding routine of weekly papers for Professor Bevan. The trip to London and the following day's worth of fruitless fuming had put him behind schedule, so he didn't even have time to reply to Harry until his lecture on the evolution of the post-war public service on Wednesday afternoon. In the first week of term, Mycroft had decided that this particular course was the obvious candidate for napping, proofreading papers, and catching up on his correspondence.

That evening, Mycroft headed for the Merton library to work on a paper. He was glad to see “his” spot in the far corner was unoccupied, so he claimed his territory by spreading out. The library was largely empty, as dinner in hall had just begun. Mycroft rarely bothered with full kit-out any more, because hall was an excellent time to get some quiet time in the library. He'd been feeling the walls of his small room closing in on him even more than usual all week, but he didn't want to head back out into the town, so he compromised and settled in.

Surrounded by the friendly, restful smells of old paper, deteriorating leather, and a thousand layers of floor polish, Mycroft's mind slipped into the details of early 20th century electoral reform. The muted shuffling and turning of pages of the few other students faded into the background and he relaxed to the point that his almost-perpetual headache began to ease. His work was sufficiently detailed to require more than 30% of his attention; the distraction was soothing, and the requirement to focus a good part of his mind on one task made it possible for him to temporarily push aside the competitive clamouring of his various schools of thought on how he might take his uncle's scheme from instruction to execution.

When he was done, Mycroft felt refreshed, his mind clearer than it had been for a week, and he wondered how long he'd be able to hang onto his current state before the infernal flailing clogged his forebrain again. 

So it was with a sinking heart that he heard quiet footsteps approaching him from behind; they were hesitant and aimed in his direction, so he deduced who they belonged to. He refused to acknowledge them as he packed his bag, his back to her.

“Hi, Mycroft.”

He closed his eyes and prayed for calm for a second before turning. “Amanda.”

She was standing in front of 11th and 12th century English history and appeared to be having some sort of crisis of conscience about it.

“Hello.”

For the previous few days Amanda had, unbeknownst to her, been playing a prominent role in Mycroft's thoughts, though hardly for a reason that would give her any satisfaction. While his brain spun its wheels in the greasy muck of his unresolved concerns, she grew bored of waiting for him to say something in response to her greedy stare. 

“You didn't dine in hall tonight.”

“Nor did you.” As he shouldered his bag he made a vague wave in her direction that indicated her clothes, which wouldn't have passed muster for formal wear by anyone's standards.

“My mum's visiting, so we had dinner together in town.”

Mycroft only nodded in acknowledgement as he fiddled with the strap of his bag. As he looked up again he saw her uncharacteristic fidgeting, lack of eye contact and apparent fascination with 1960s scholarship on the Norman Conquest, and realised she was nervous.

His brain sighed, though he remained silent. She was bucking up the courage to ask him out and he wasn't sure if he should leap at the opportunity or run for the hills. His eyebrows lurched upwards as the thought occurred: _she's going to ask me to the Winter Ball_, and his brain scrambled for a non-committal answer that wouldn't sound as if he were holding out for a better option. 

“How's your brother?” she finally blurted out with almost-unseemly force.

Mycroft didn't bother hiding his surprise at the question, now perplexed and as uneasy as she was at the question. “Why do you ask?”

Amanda had moved on to picking at the spine of a book and Mycroft barely resisted the impulse to slap her hand away, while also wondering what her younger brother (who was still at Marlborough) had passed on to her about Sherlock's ongoing misadventures in formal education.

“I haven’t heard anything recently,” he replied, wary of letting slip the fact that his family was hardly the acme of interpersonal communication. But if there was something going on with Sherlock, Mycroft reasoned that Amanda was more likely to spill the beans than his parents or uncle.

His reply flustered her even more, though she made a valiant effort to hide it. “Oh, I guess—maybe George had it wrong. He can be such a drama queen sometimes.”

“Wrong about what, exactly?”

“Well—” She shifted from foot to foot and Mycroft could see the desire to ingratiate herself with him warring in what passed for her mind with the fear of annoying or upsetting him.

He sighed. “What’s Sherlock done now?”

“Well—”

Mycroft glared at her dithering and the force of it made her finally meet his eye. “Supposedly he was caught in the chemistry lab doing experiments in the middle of the night again and if he does it again he’ll be expelled. _Really_ expelled this time.” 

He rolled his eyes. _God, I was almost worried for a second. Thanks a bunch._ “If they had any intention of expelling Sherlock they’d have done so years ago.” When her expression shifted, he added, “And yes, people do seem to make different rules for him. Have been doing so his whole life.”

“Oh. That must be fun.”

Sympathy. Just what he wanted, Mycroft thought as he cut off his incipient scowl. “Not at all. Sherlock’s mind has always worked differently from ordinary people’s. That needs to be accommodated.”

Amanda had obviously heard the rebuke that Mycroft had tried to keep out of his voice, as she blushed in embarrassment. “Oh, okay.”

Feeling the first rumblings of anxiety at being trapped, Mycroft adjusted his bag strap on his shoulder. He resisted the urge to give her his “please get the hell out of my way” look that sent first years scuttling into corners. His unease ratcheted up a notch when he noticed she had hitched on the “making pleasantries in the face of insurmountable odds” expression that seemed to be trained into girls of her class while still in the nursery. He’d always wondered if the attitude that engendered it was a kind of arrogance or merely obliviousness to the possibility of someone ever denying them what they wanted.

“Are you going to the Winter Ball?” she finally blurted out.

Considering that he'd suspected this moment was coming, and he still hadn't thought of an alternate candidate for Rudy's plan, Mycroft was annoyed with himself for being utterly tongue-tied when faced with the reality of the request actually happening.

“I haven't given it any thought,” seemed to him a sufficiently non-committal response.

“Oh. Why not?”

Mycroft stared back at her. Women, he suddenly thought, really were an alien species.

She waited for his explanation, and as Mycroft didn’t feel he owed her one, he didn’t provide one.

The conversation had reached a mutually uncomprehending stand-off: Mycroft wanting to wriggle out of his current tight spot without either annoying her or committing himself to something distasteful and Amanda refusing or unable to recognise that he found her company burdensome. 

For about the tenth time over the years, Mycroft wondered why she’d sought out his acquaintance all those years ago at Marlborough. They had little in common that he could see, and he had never encouraged her attention. She wasn’t unattractive, and by the standards of ordinary people probably would be considered reasonably intelligent. She wouldn’t have to work hard to find more appropriate targets for her affections, ones who might even return them. So why him, and why persist after all this time? 

He’d wondered if perhaps the constancy of her delusion was a kind of apathy, a misconceived crush that had become a habit due to an unwillingness to expend the effort to move on. And now that he might finally have found some use for her, he was about to screw it up entirely by behaving like a halfwit.

“Um, were you planning on going to the Ball?” he managed to stutter. To his relief he sounded nervous rather than resigned to the inevitable.

“Perhaps. Katy's going with Rob, so I thought, maybe—” her shrug was a complete failure of insouciance and Mycroft felt the clang of a jail door slamming shut.

“Oh. Okay. I—um—” he hummed and hawed through the moment he felt the tide change.

“Oh.”

She turned her back to him and began pulling books off a shelf; her choices seemed entirely random and he knew she was trying to save face, pretending to remain for reasons other than not wanting to face him again. So he left, annoyed with himself for allowing her to wrong-foot him. It was embarrassing.

As he headed back to his room, Mycroft wondered what effect this slip-up might have. He’d always known that long-term risk was associated with Amanda Fitzhugh. For years now, he’d needed to find a way to “let her down gently” without alienating her. Involving her in the plan seemed counterproductive—it would only encourage her hopeless crush—while at the same time providing only a short-term solution to his dilemma. On the other hand, it wasn't as if he had any other candidates.

Since shortly after his last meeting with Rudy, in the back of his mind Mycroft had been rolling over the idea of asking Amanda out. For a day or so, it had seemed like the ideal solution. The only one, really, he’d thought, barring an Oxford-wide hunt for an alternative. 

Mycroft had contemplated every woman known to him in an effort to determine possible candidates. Every one other than Amanda (from an admittedly small field) he’d had to dismiss as too stupid, too ugly, too boring, even more socially awkward than he was, women who loathed him, or women he’d never in a million years have a chance of attracting. It had been a chastening exercise. In the end, Amanda had been the only woman left standing, but Mycroft knew that that path placed him in all sorts of peril.

First possibility: that after dating for a short period of time, Amanda figured out he didn’t actually care for her, that he was unwilling to advance the relationship into a physical one, or that he was unable to convince anyone else that their relationship was “real”. 

He'd be back to square one and whoever was surveilling him would figure out he really was an emotionally constipated loser weirdo, a freak whose freakishness made him blackmailable and so a security risk, relegating him for all time to being nobody special.

Second possibility: that after dating for a few months, Mycroft wouldn’t be able to manipulate her into dumping him. He knew that _he_ couldn’t be the one who initiated the break-up, because doing so ran the risk of hurting her. And a hurt, angry Amanda Fitzhugh could very well torpedo his professional future, considering her father’s influence at the Exchequer. It was imperative that he get enough time out of her to allay the concerns of those who had concerns, while ensuring things didn’t go on so long that the third possible risk came into play.

Third possibility: that after dating for a few months other people, or worse, Amanda herself, began to see them as a real couple, one with a future together. Mycroft shuddered at the thought of his mother’s response if he were to go home with a Fitzhugh on his arm, even if it meant casting aside her favourite delusion about him.

The Marriage Train would pull out of the station and before he knew it, Mycroft would find himself surrounded by warm, soft, insistent hands pushing him inexorably toward the altar and nothing short of an act of emotional terrorism would derail it. In five years, it would be the cathedral, flowers, bridesmaids, everyone else grinning in relief (See! He really is normal after all!) as great-uncle Tim intoned the opening lines of the marriage service. A suburban semi, a nothing job, one, two, three brats in a row and on his fortieth birthday standing on Vauxhall Bridge in the middle of the night wondering if he had a single reason _not_ to do it. 

That was not going to happen.

Mycroft took two long, deep breaths to get his blood pressure back to normal.

He would need to give the matter some more thought, he recognised as he climbed the staircase to his room. There was too much at stake in the long term to blunder into this game half-blind.

~ + ~

Friday afternoon, as he was returning to his room after lunch, Mycroft found Sherlock moping at the foot of the staircase to the dining hall. He didn’t bother asking what his brother was doing 40 miles from where he was supposed to be; there was little chance Sherlock would tell him the truth. Unless he’d finally been expelled, of course; _that_ his brother would be proud to acknowledge.

“Did you finally force them to expel you? Was it the stealing, or have you finally blown up the Sciences building?”

Sherlock took a long final drag off his cigarette, then toed it into the gravel. A passing student frowned at the sight, but her native British passivity meant she did nothing to rebuke him. “They don’t even know I’ve left.”

“I doubt that very much. You’ve never been the sort of person to pass unnoticed, so your absence—” 

“Stop being boring.” Sherlock turned, taking in the buildings, the other students. “I need a coffee.”

“This jaunt is a bit excessive for a cup of coffee.”

Sherlock glared up at him for an instant, before the false show of disdain reappeared. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“What have I told you about being obvious?”

“Somewhere private.”

Mycroft sighed. There went his post-war social policy lecture down the drain. He resumed the march to his room, assuming that the footsteps he heard just behind him was Sherlock following.

By the time Mycroft was sitting on his bed and Sherlock at his desk, curiosity had largely displaced his annoyance. “Okay, what is it now?” he asked when Sherlock hesitated to get on with it.

“The Powers case.”

“There is no Powers case, Sherlock. There never has been.” Mycroft didn’t bother to hide his concern; he thought they’d disposed of this nonsense months ago.

“There’s been another drowning. A boy from the same school as Carl Powers. I know there’s—”

“No there isn’t. It’s—”

“A coincidence?” The mockery in Sherlock’s voice verged on outright disdain. “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidence, Mike.”

Mycroft didn’t rise to the bait. “Okay. Where’s your evidence the two are connected?” As Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, Mycroft added, “Other than the fact they both drowned and both attended the same school.”

When Sherlock didn’t reply, Mycroft continued. “Were the circumstances the same? Did the boys know each other? Did they have the same friends? The same enemies?” When Sherlock retreated into a silent sulk, Mycroft added, “You have to do better than that. I know you can do better than that.” 

Mycroft was about to add something along the lines of, _I can’t believe you’re wasting my time with this nonsense_, when he realised that this supposed “death related to Carl Powers” could just be an excuse for his brother to escape school for the day. And if that were the case, then something must be seriously wrong at Marlborough. Because his brother hardly ever reached out to him, hadn’t since the events at Musgrave and the horrible fall-out.

He knew that he couldn’t just ask; Sherlock would never answer a direct question about what was really bothering him. 

Sherlock still hadn’t replied to or in any way acknowledged any of Mycroft’s questions. Now that he’d come and said his piece, he seemed to be retreating into his own mind, ignoring Mycroft and everything else around him. Sherlock began to mechanically roll and unroll his shirt sleeves, and as he did so Mycroft noticed his wrist bones sticking out from the ends of his cuffs. He made a mental note to tell their mother to get him some new shirts; it appeared Sherlock had finally hit his adolescent growth spurt. Mycroft was glad for him; Sherlock had always been sensitive about being small for his age—he’d been smaller even than Eurus when they were children—and it appeared Sherlock wouldn’t be taking after their mother in height, as he’d always feared.

Perched on Mycroft’s chair, legs folded up and knees knocking about all over the place, he looked like an umbrella, folding and unfolding itself. If Mycroft had been prone to flights of fancy, he might have seen his little brother as some sort of mythological creature, physically perched on the edge of incipient manhood, yet also strangely child-like and fragile. Perhaps that was just the nature of adolescence, he reasoned. Perhaps even he himself—stolid and rational creature that he was—had appeared as such to others when he was the same age.

And as usual, Sherlock was hiding his fear behind a mask of petulance. Was it _really_ fear, Mycroft wondered. The brief mention of his old obsession had brought real animation to Sherlock, which both concerned Mycroft (at the subject) and heartened him that there was still anything in the world that could bring that old spark to his brother's eyes.

The shock of events at Musgrave had had a profound effect on Sherlock. After the disappearance of his best friend, the fire, and their sister being taken away, Sherlock’s reaction had been to pretend none of it had happened, to invent a fantasy life that he used to entomb the truth, building himself an alternate reality where his best friend had been nothing but a pet. While this had worried both Mycroft and their parents, at the time they’d thought it best to let Sherlock work through his coping strategies on his own. But in the process he’d become strangely detached from his own emotional life, sending his equilibrium swinging out of control: one minute insensible to every emotional nuance of events around him, the next flying off the handle in a rage or becoming obsessed with tiny details of irrelevancies. 

By the time they’d moved from Wiltshire to their current home in Sussex, Sherlock had emerged a very changed little boy, and he’d never gone back to who he’d been before. Every once in a while the “old” Sherlock fought his way out, but to Mycroft’s never-ending concern, the “old” Sherlock he saw was still the seven year-old, as if the emotional part of Sherlock’s character had ceased growing the day Eurus had taken his best friend from him. 

Mycroft had never known how to respond to the emotionally stunted child who reappeared whenever Sherlock was stressed. He refused to treat Sherlock like a child; his brother needed to learn some responsibility before he left school or his future would be very dark, indeed. He watched Sherlock comforting himself with his little rituals, toying with his clothes, tapping on the table (Beethoven today, he noticed), staring blank-eyed out the window, and Mycroft knew that behind these tics Sherlock’s brain was fizzing and whirling away even more frantically than usual. He was trying to get something to compute and failing, and Mycroft needed to find out what it was before Sherlock sent himself into another downward spiral. While he wasn’t looking forward to another round of playing Carnarvon to Sherlock’s Tut, Mycroft knew he couldn’t just send him back to school in his current state of mind. Whatever had brought his brother from Marlborough to Merton had to be more important than his childish delusions about a pair of drowned schoolboys, or so Mycroft hoped.

“Why are you really here, Sherlock? Not that I mind,” Mycroft added, not wanting his brother to stomp out in a huff, as he often did when he felt his motives were being criticised.

“I told you,” Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off the window into the courtyard, though he’d stopped tapping the table, to Mycroft’s relief.

“You gave me _an_ answer; I strongly suspect it wasn’t _the_ answer,” Mycroft replied, aping one of their mother’s favourite responses when she suspected one of her children wasn’t being entirely honest with her.

His brother finally faced him again and Mycroft was glad to see a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Then Sherlock sighed in his most affected tones of ennui and turned back to the window. “Bored.”

“So?”

“I thought coming here might be less boring. I was wrong, apparently.”

“I apologise for failing to lay on a circus for your amusement. Perhaps you could give me some warning next time.”

“It’s a pity you’re not taking sciences; you could sneak me into a lab—”

“You needn’t have come all this way for a lab. I know—” 

“You know what? Or think you know—Oh, right, George Fitzhugh’s sister’s lurking around here somewhere, isn’t she? If she’s as stupid as him, I can’t imagine why—” 

“Sherlock, don’t.” Mycroft took a deep breath before his annoyance made off with his good sense. “What happened?”

For a few seconds, Sherlock just stared out the window, then he shrugged and Mycroft hated to see his obvious misery.

“Who is it?” Mycroft asked a moment later. _Don’t say she. Don’t assume. Don’t let him think you judge as you have been judged._

Mycroft watched Sherlock squirm and couldn’t help a rush of sympathy. He remembered all too well those mid-adolescent years of raging hormones and manifest ignorance. Everything changing all at once, and nothing making sense anymore. “None of it matters.”

“What?” Sherlock sullenly picked at a loose thread hanging from the seam of his trousers.

Mycroft made a vague sweeping gesture meant to convey acknowledgement of his brother’s body as a physical entity, but which he realised made it look as though he were dismissing it instead. “Physical things. Well, _certain_ physical things—”

“You’ve stopped pining after what’s-his-name?”

“I’ve never _pined_ after anyone, Sherlock.”

“Still a virgin, then.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

“Your allowance must be bigger than I thought.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

Sherlock just chuckled and herded the pile of pens on Mycroft’s desk, like a shepherd strategizing a tricky roundup. Mycroft wasn’t happy that his brother refused to meet his eye, though not as unhappy as Sherlock’s return to the Powers accident did. 

Mycroft had assumed Sherlock had finally moved past this former obsession. He’d hoped Sherlock had at least begun to develop the resiliency to leave behind childish emotional attachments to his fantasy life. After Eurus and Musgrave, Mycroft didn’t think he could cope with losing another sibling to madness and/or all-consuming delusion. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

His brother only shrugged and Mycroft sighed. He wondered when (if?) this recurring dramaturgy would ever play itself out: Sherlock shrugging off all attempts at assistance or guidance and Mycroft sighing in frustration at the same. Three years was more than enough, he thought.

“I know this is a difficult time—” 

“Don’t bother.” Sherlock squirmed and tried to crawl further back into his chair, as if the very idea of the topic repelled him, even though all evidence indicated this was what had sent him haring across the country to his brother.

“—for you. When I was your age—” 

“You’ve never been my age, Mycroft. You were born 40 years old.”

“—I allowed myself, for a brief time, to be distracted—”

“Shut up!” Sherlock curled up into a ball in the chair. “God, enough already,” he muttered to the tops of his knees.

Mycroft stopped, his rote speech elbowed aside by the childish melodrama being played out in front of him. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed a rubber eraser from his bedside table and flung it at the top of Sherlock’s head. It bounced off, then tumbled across the floor as Sherlock’s head snapped up. Mycroft was shocked to see the tense, scrunched anger on his brother’s face and he seriously wondered if screams, violence or tears were going to make an appearance. How reminiscent would that be, he thought. “Stop it. Right now. You are not a child, even if everyone in the world caters to your every whim as if you are. Just grow up and take some responsibility for yourself.”

“Fuck off,” Sherlock snapped as he leapt to his feet and stomped out the door, not even bothering to slam it behind him.

Mycroft stared into the corridor, trying to decide who he was angrier with: Sherlock for continuing to behave like a spoilt five year old, or himself for allowing Sherlock to rile him to such a point. He rescued the eraser from the far corner of the room and tossed it onto his desk.

Mycroft's school years had been fraught on the matter of sexuality. He'd never fallen into the turgid passions that had seemed to grip so many of his classmates. Sherlock's allusion to Mycroft's affection for Harry—which Mycroft had never believed was of a sexual nature—had stung, as Sherlock had known it would, as it implied that Mycroft was incapable of simple affection without an ulterior motive.

He had once made the mistake, as an increasingly concerned fifteen year-old, to try to apply logic to his oddness compared to the other boys around him. The result had been a three-year misconception that (horror of horrors) his mother might actually be correct in her assertions that he was gay. By the time he'd arrived at Oxford, he'd realised that his lack of interest in virtually every girl and woman he'd ever met was more a matter of generalised misanthropy than incipient homosexuality. After all, he despised most boys and men he met, as well.

Regardless, it seemed to him that Sherlock was in some way having some sort of similar crisis. Trying to look at the evidence at hand objectively, he thought it unlikely that Sherlock might be gay. Like he himself, Sherlock had never shown any sign of interest in anyone. Mycroft wondered if perhaps this was the problem: that Sherlock was comparing himself to some misguided sense of what he “should” be, some irrelevant “normality” that didn't apply to the Holmeses in any other way. 

So why was Sherlock so concerned? Was he being bullied, Mycroft wondered. He always made a fuss about how he didn't care about what other people thought of him; perhaps he'd finally come across someone whose opinion he did care about. Would this be enough to send him scuttling to his brother for guidance? Whatever the reason for Sherlock's appearance, Mycroft admitted he'd made a complete hash of it. His own adolescence had been bad enough, he mused. It appeared that parenting Sherlock through the rapids was going to be more draining than he’d imagined.

~ + ~

As he strode down the corridor to Professor Bevan's office, Mycroft thought he heard a familiar voice. He stopped and cocked an ear towards Bevan's open office door, then sighed. _Rudy_. Just what he needed.

“Professor Bevan. Uncle,” he said as if he'd expected the man to appear at his weekly tutorial. “I wasn't aware you two knew each other.” 

“We don't,” Bevan replied, continuing to move stacks of paper around on his desk, searching for something.

“Professor Bevan has kindly allowed me to hijack your appointment,” Rudy replied, with an obviously pre-designed excuse for being there.

Mycroft noted the missing bodies in the room. “What about Fletcher and Li?”

Rudy and Bevan exchanged a look that belied their previous assertion of not knowing each other. Mycroft wondered if Bevan also pranced around in women's clothing in his spare time, though the moment the notion occurred he fervently wished it hadn't, considering the accompanying visuals.

Bevan grabbed a folder, seemingly at random, and headed for the door. Just before leaving he turned to Mycroft, reaching out. “You have your paper for me?”

With a scowl, Mycroft dug it out of his bag and handed it over.

“Good boy,” Bevan muttered as he departed.

Rudy glanced from Mycroft to the door in an instructive manner, which Mycroft chose to ignore, thinking that if Rudy wanted privacy, he could get off his arse and close the door himself. His uncle continued to stare at him in what he probably thought was a meaningful way; Mycroft stared right back. With a sigh, Rudy closed the door. It was a petty victory, but Mycroft wanted to ensure that Rudy learnt that intruding into Mycroft's world meant they weren't necessarily going to be playing by Rudy's rules.

He continued to meet his uncle's level stare; after all, _he_ had nowhere else to be for the next hour.

After a few more seconds of mutual posturing, Rudy finally conceded with an almost-imperceptible nod. “I understand Sherlock came to see you last week.”

This wasn't the opening Mycroft was expecting. “Are you surveilling him, as well?”

“No.”

“And?”

“What did he come all that way to talk to you about?” _Stupid boy_ Mycroft heard at the end of his uncle's question.

“I don't see that it's any of your business.”

“Anything to do with either of you is my business.”

“As you aren't one of our parents, that assertion is hardly supportable.”

Rudy didn't respond, though Mycroft sensed he'd scored a tiny blow. Rudy seemed to have not yet figured out that the staring didn't work on Mycroft anymore.

“Did you run the assessment protocols yesterday?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Mycroft bit his tongue on the “That's none of your business, as well,” retort that almost managed to vault over his good sense. Instead he shifted in his chair, as if the question made him uncomfortable; misinformation at this juncture might be for the best. “There were more important things to discuss.”

“Such as?”

“School things.” Mycroft paused. “It's awfully late in the day for you suddenly to be taking an interest in Sherlock.”

From the slight flinch, Mycroft knew he'd scored a hit this time, even though the staring contest resumed. Through the thick stone walls he heard voices, laughter. Footsteps approached down the corridor, then disappeared into Professor Farini's office next door.

In Bevan's office, neither man had moved or blinked yet, and Mycroft was starting to feel the strain. He knew he was unlikely to outlast his uncle, but he wanted to at least put in a good showing. 

“Have you given any thought to what we discussed last time we met?” Rudy finally asked, granting Mycroft the favour of pretending he wasn't letting him off the hook by deigning to break the strained silence.

“Yes, of course.”

The “of course” seemed to surprise his uncle, and Mycroft wondered just how low the man's opinion of him really was. The moment the thought came to him, he knew he was being unfairly harsh. His uncle's approach to helping him might be difficult to appreciate (or understand) sometimes, but Mycroft knew Rudy did have what he perceived to be Mycroft's best interests at heart. But Rudy was a man of the past, raised in the Cold War, and his viewpoint on his nephew's future was irreparably coloured by The Game of the 60s and 70s, when his own career had begun.

Mycroft was still disheartened by the implications of playing along with Rudy's plan; on the other hand, at the very least it might be useful research. Mycroft acknowledged he had painfully little knowledge of women, especially ordinary (non-Holmes) ones, and there was always the possibility that he might even end up working with one at some point in his career.

“Do you have a viable candidate?” Rudy asked.

“Not at the moment.”

A hint of a scowl appeared on Rudy's face

“Do you have someone in mind, or am I allowed to choose my own poison?” Mycroft added.

“That attitude isn't exactly productive.”

“Please tell me you're not going to pretend a vast knowledge of wooing women to your bed that you're offering up for my edification.” Mycroft chortled at the unfettered annoyance his comment elicited, while the voice in the back of his mind cautioned him against provoking the Scott temper.

“Stop behaving as if you're an idiot.”

“Let me get on with it in my own way, then,” Mycroft snapped back, then added in a more moderate tone, “I said I would go along with your scheme.”

“No, you didn't.”

“Oh. I thought I had.” When Rudy only nodded, Mycroft added, “My apologies.”

“What are you planning to do about it?”

“I can't exactly conjure someone up out of thin air. She has to be someone people would believe I'd be interested in, and who I can tolerate for the time necessary.”

“The former takes priority over the latter.”

“Thank you very much, uncle.” Mycroft harrumphed in a sham of mild submission. He hated rowing with Rudy, even though it seemed to be happening more frequently with every passing year. His uncle had more than his share of the Scott arrogance and bossiness Mycroft knew from his mother, so there was bound to be tensions as he began to strike out on his own. Not that that reasoning made it feel less smothering.

Much as he appreciated the support his uncle had given him over the last few years, Mycroft knew that his future required him to leave Rudy's influence behind at some point. If he wanted to surpass his uncle's career, he couldn't be seen as his creature, even if it seemed Rudy hadn't figured that out yet. 

“So. You and Bevan—”

“Don't,” Rudy interrupted. “Whatever you're thinking, I can guarantee it's incorrect—”

“How long has he been sending possible recruits in your direction?”

“Or not,” Rudy conceded with a rueful little smile. “His role is—irregular.”

“So he mostly helps you keep an eye on me, then?”

“Oh, hardly that. He doesn't spend enough time with you to be effective surveillance. Though he has made some pithy observations on the development of your character over the years.”

“You knew him before I arrived, though.”

“No.”

Mycroft didn't believe that at all, though chose to not argue the point. “So how did you—” 

“He worked with a colleague, who has since retired. I inherited the professor as part of a job lot of contacts, feeders, and other paraphernalia.”

“I'm sure he'd be pleased to be characterised as 'paraphernalia'.”

“I've been called worse,” Bevan said from the doorway. “And not just by little squits like you.” He pointed at Rudy with a rolled sheaf that Mycroft assumed was his paper, and said. “On your bike.” Bevan dropped the roll on Mycroft's lap as he ambled past to his desk, leaving behind a fog of Dunhill smoke that told Mycroft where the man had spent the last ten minutes.

Blasé as ever, Rudy stood without even a hint of unspoken protest at the summary dismissal. He straitened his waistcoat, buttoned his jacket, nodded at Bevan, and with a muttered, “Mycroft,” left.

“Close the door!” Bevan called after him and to Mycroft's surprise, his uncle complied.

Once they were finally alone, Bevan turned his attention to a somewhat bemused Mycroft. “So, Holmes. I see from that—” He gestured at the paper in Mycroft's hand. “—your prose hasn't improved since your last attempt and the ideas are as trite and predictable as ever.”

With a tiny, secret smile, Mycroft settled back in the chair for his semi-weekly Welsh bollocking. After Rudy's surprise visit, he was looking forward to the comforting familiarity and routine of sparring over things that didn't really matter. He mirrored his tutor's knowing smile as the man returned to his usual vein of half-hearted abuse.

~ + ~

When Mycroft entered the main hall of the club, he wrinkled his nose at the musty pungency of old sporting equipment, sweating bodies and genteel neglect. He hated places like this; they were a reminder of past failures, hours of enforced boredom and schoolboy tortures. But Harry's schedule was surprisingly full for a man supposedly on leave, and Mycroft had few other options if he wanted to see his old friend before his return to London and re-deployment.

On the piste at the far end of the room two fencers were sparring. One of them could be Harry, based on height and build, but it was difficult to tell with someone in full fencing gear. His opponent was a woman of middle height who was more than giving him a run for his money. Mycroft stood along the edge of the room and watched, curious, while the man attempted to use his superior height and reach to his advantage. But the woman was very quick and to Mycroft's half-trained eye and limited experience, seemed to be easily finding a way through the man's defences; her speed, reflexes and more precise technique made up for her physical disadvantages.

They made three more passes before the woman made a bold attack that ended with a stylish slash to the man's right thigh. When the man laughed—probably at the audacity and skill of the move—Mycroft recognised it as Harry's.

Harry and his partner went through the requisite post-bout politesse; when Harry removed his mask he noticed Mycroft standing nearby, watching.

“Mycroft!” Harry greeted him with the enthusiasm Mycroft had always found both endearing and slightly embarrassing.

“Harry.” Mycroft stood his ground and watched his friend leap to the floor, then stride across and shake his hand heartily.

“Wonderful to see you,” Harry said.

“Likewise. How was Ireland?”

Harry shrugged and Mycroft knew what that meant: he couldn't, or wouldn't, talk about it, so Mycroft left it.

He paused as Harry's sparring partner approached.

Harry turned to the woman trailing him at a polite distance. “Christina, I'd like to introduce an old friend, Mycroft Holmes. We were at school together. He's at Merton now.”

The young woman slid her right glove off and extended her hand to Mycroft. Somewhat startled, he took it and suppressed a grimace at its slight dampness from her exertions. “Christina Martin,” she said, smiling, and he wondered if she did so because she'd sensed his discomfort. “Final year?”

_American_, Mycroft thought. Considering the context and her estimated age, his next supposition was _Rhodes scholar_.

“Christina's at Nuffield,” Harry added.

Mycroft ignored that comment as he watched the interloper and she watched him back with open curiosity. He thought it best to pretend to not hate her on sight, considering Harry's fond looks in her direction. College chatter bored him, so he didn't take up his friend's opening efforts. He noticed the lack of lamé and glove overlay. “Assault, today?”

Harry laughed, drawing Mycroft's attention back to him. “I've learnt not to keep score with her.”

From what little he'd seen, Mycroft recognised that Harry was right to protect his ego. “That was a very fine pass at the end,” he said to her.

“Why aren't you a member if you fence?” Christina asked him.

“No time, I'm afraid.”

For a moment, it appeared as though she was going to argue the point with him, but changed her mind. “PPE? I hear it's quite a grind.”

“For some people.”

She chuckled, then turned to Harry. “I'm off. We're still on for Friday?”

“Of course; you have to let me get my revenge.”

She gave Harry a smile, then turned to Mycroft. “Nice to meet you, Mycroft Holmes.” She gave him a considering look before hefting her bag onto her shoulder and weaving her way around the furniture and equipment scattered across the room. Mycroft watched as Harry's eyes followed her to the change rooms.

“American.”

“No, Canadian. Rhodes Scholar.”

Harry stared absently over Mycroft's shoulder for a minute, oblivious to his dismay at discovering another competitor for Harry's time and attention. Not that that was unusual. Harry was a man of many fine qualities—kindness, graciousness, generosity, tolerance—but no-one could legitimately claim he was the most observant man in the world. 

“It's not easy for her.”

“What?” To Mycroft's annoyance, Harry was still obviously thinking about his new Canadian friend. He wondered with a mental smirk what the odious Suzanne thought of her.

“Coming here. She's a brilliant fencer, but she couldn't get a bout to save her life.”

_Typical Harry_, Mycroft thought. “And you stepped in.”

Harry shrugged again, obviously uncomfortable with the implied praise. “A small kindness, really.”

“Which she repays by besting you.”

Harry laughed. “Yes, deservedly. She's too good for me. I'm hoping she'll whip me back into shape.” He patted himself on the stomach. “Mrs T's cook's put a stone on me in the last week, I think.” He turned to Mycroft. “Do you really never fence anymore? You used to be quite promising.”

“Six years ago,” Mycroft scoffed, at the same time warmed by his friend's characterisation of his fumbling efforts as “promising”.

While Mycroft waited for Harry to shower and change, his thoughts strayed to this strange addition to Harry's social circle. Harry had always taken in strays, from Mycroft at school to his new fencing partner. Mycroft had never understood Harry's innate decency and kindness; he didn't know where it came from or why he'd been chosen as a recipient. But for six years it had been one of the touchstones of his life and he was heartily glad of it. Harry was the one person he'd known who never judged him, and never questioned his decisions, even when Harry openly admitted he didn't understand them. He was brave and fundamentally _good_ in a way Mycroft recognised but knew he himself could never be, as it required sacrifices he knew he'd never be able to make.

Harry was also, of course, a potentially useful friend to have. The Abernathys were one of those families that, while not members of the aristocracy, seemed to have been around forever, generation after generation of tall, distinguished soldiers who defined the term “officer class”. Men who married well, bred reliably, and generally just kept their heads down and went about their business of being posh, but not _too_ posh. Mycroft was aware that Harry's father knew _everyone_, all the people Rudy didn't and would never know. The people who lived beyond the rules that bound ordinary people and kept them firmly away. While one part of Mycroft's mind recognised this fact, other parts pointedly ignored them. One of the few fixed rules of Mycroft's life was that Harry was a friend, and that Mycroft would do almost anything to not have to presume on that friendship. He knew he had never been, nor would he ever be, a particularly moral person (he was much too much of a pragmatist), but this was a line he hoped he'd never have to cross. 

~ + ~

After a very enjoyable dinner with Harry, during which his friend regaled him with new tales of his men and his superior officers, Mycroft's life at Merton settled back into its usual quiet routine. Over the next two weeks even Rudy left him alone to focus on the grind of lectures, research, and papers. His next tutorial with Bevan was free from even allusion to his uncle's gate-crashing the previous week. Mycroft decided to avoid dining in hall entirely, so as to be free of even the low-level annoyance of Amanda's attentions, at least until he decided what he was going to do about Rudy's plan. Eventually, he began to feel his stress levels fall as he was able to focus on his putative reason for being at Oxford: getting an education.

The one fly in the ointment was Harry's new friend, the fencer. Every couple of days, Mycroft would find himself somewhere—in a coffee shop, walking down the street, dining in one of his favourite restaurants—and he would see her. And once he started noticing her, he seemed to see her everywhere. To his relief, she never approached him, and if she noticed him observing her, she would simply acknowledge his presence with a cocked eyebrow and a half-smile. Once, when he saw her dining with a tall, dark-haired man at Mycroft's favourite Indian restaurant, she gave him a small wave across the room, before turning her attention back to her companion.

Once his initial annoyance passed, Mycroft wondered if he would have to give up eating there. And after seven run-ins in ten days, he began to wonder what was going on. There was no way that it was a coincidence, and he wondered if she was working for Rudy. His imagination supplied him with the image of turning the corner in the stacks of the Merton library, to find her lounging in his favourite spot amongst the medievalists doing—whatever it was she did at Nuffield. Her sudden appearance in Harry's life, then her introduction to Mycroft, indicated some kind of intent, but he had no data indicating whose mind was behind those intentions or what they might mean for him.

It was obvious that she was engaged in surveillance of some kind, but her approach was idiosyncratic, to say the least. When Mycroft saw nothing of her for four days, he supposed she was done with whatever her assignment had been. Just as he was in the process of deleting her from his mind, though, she showed up again, and this time she plonked herself down at his table in his favourite coffee shop. Mycroft didn't bother hiding his consternation, which, judging from the small, knowing smile she gave him, she'd seen and understood.

“Hello,” she said as she dropped her bag on the floor.

“Hello.”

“I can't help feeling you're stalking me for some reason,” she said with a hint of amusement, as if she knew that he really wasn't and was teasing him.

“Er—”

“So if there's something you want to ask, or say to me, just do it.”

Her words weren't exactly unfriendly, but Mycroft sensed she was both curious and irritated. Or perhaps she was just well-briefed and believed that offence was the most effective defence. Mycroft speculated on the possibility that she really was entirely innocent, and he supposed that if that were the case, her irritation was as understandable as his. But life had taught him never to give in to the comforting lie of _coincidence_; there was always a rational explanation for things.

“I was under the impression you were stalking _me_.”

“I'd be interested to hear why you might think that. Or are you just paranoid?” Her thin, rueful smile was back and despite the context, she didn't seem upset or hostile. Mycroft was perplexed, as well as a little affronted at her accusation of paranoia.

“No more than you are.”

Her smile broadened a bit and Mycroft suspected she was holding back laughter. He gave her a thin smile of his own in exchange.

“Okay, we've confirmed neither of us is stalking the other.”

“Are you going to claim coincidence?” Mycroft couldn't help a note of disdain.

“Not if you're going to say it like that.” She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced before pushing the cup away. “More a matter of statistical probabilities.” She glanced around them. “This place is almost exactly halfway between our colleges, both of which are fairly central. We've probably been running into each other on a regular basis for weeks, but until Harry introduced us we didn't know each other, so never noticed.” She shrugged. “Not coincidence, just a change of parameters.”

Mycroft nodded; he could find no flaw in the argument, even though this new reality was going to upset his routine if he needed to find somewhere else to go for his daily dose of horrible student-grade coffee.

She cocked her head to examine him closely; apparently she was perplexed about something, but Mycroft wasn't interested enough to enquire and she didn't offer. After a few seconds of her intense, almost scientific, examination, she stood, then looked down at her barely-touched coffee with a mock-shudder. “It was nice to see you again, Mycroft Holmes.” There was another of her fleeting half-smiles, then she picked up her bag and made as if to leave.

_Nice_. Who in this day and age referred to anything as _nice_, he wondered as he watched her watching him, apparently waiting for a reply. As conversations went it was hardly remarkable, but her odd, penetrating watchfulness was certainly out of the ordinary. He spent a moment wondering if Harry's taste in friends had lowered this much over the years. Perhaps that was what an Army career did to a man, he pondered. 

While he watched her pull on her coat, in the back of his mind he felt stiff gears, long rusty from lack of use, slowly, painfully, grind into action and present him with an unexpected proposition.

It was—intriguing. Convenient, at first glance; on the second, not so simple. In the space of two and one-fifth seconds, his mind examined, assessed, identified the risk factors, decided to reject, then changed itself and as Mycroft's attention returned to the surface, he saw her looking at him with an expression of slight concern.

“You okay?” she asked. “You looked like you kind of went off-line for a second there.”

“I'm fine, thank you.”

“You're not diabetic, are you? I dated a diabetic guy once, and he used to look like that whenever his blood sugar got too low.”

“I'm fine, let me assure you.”

“Okay, whatever. See you around, I guess—”

“Christina,” he interrupted, knowing if he let her get away now he might lose his nerve or change his mind again before he saw her next and he just wanted the problem off his plate. “I was wondering—” He paused, annoyed at himself for sounding so indecisive. “Would you like to go for dinner some time?”

For a second or two, her only response was obvious confusion, followed by consternation, then what Mycroft thought might be curiosity. He engaged his mother's rigorous anti-fidget training and remained perfectly still while she decided. Though he did find her reaction surprising; after all, what concerns could she possibly have about him?

“I'm assuming you're thinking of this as a date?” she finally replied.

Mycroft fought back the frown that wanted to make an appearance. “Well, yes.”

That seemed to flummox her even more. Did she think herself so unattractive that no-one would ever ask her out, he wondered. 

“Um. Okay.”

Mycroft was hardly bowled over by her complete lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of spending two hours engaging in chit chat with him over a meal. At least, that's what Mycroft assumed they would be doing; he'd never been on an actual date before, so he acknowledged to himself he was working with incomplete data. Perhaps he should consult Harry beforehand, he thought.

“When were you thinking—” she started, before trailing off, lost in thought. “I'm pretty busy this term. Weekdays are out.”

Mycroft blanched at the idea of waiting until the new year. The prospect of Rudy's response to further delays wasn't heartening, and Mycroft wanted to get the show on the road. The sooner he started, the sooner he could dump her and be done with the ridiculous plan, preferably long before it would have an impact on studying for his exams.

“I'm assuming you eat dinner every day.”

She gave him an owlish look, but it was too early in the game for him to be able to read some of her expressions with any confidence. “Of course. I'm busy the next couple of Saturdays.”

She was boxing him into a corner, presenting obstacles for some reason. Mycroft wondered if it was because she really didn't want to go out with him (in which case she shouldn't have agreed to) or if she was testing his enthusiasm (in which case her usefulness to him would be very short-lived; he had no tolerance for being tested).

“How about the 28th?” she asked with nothing more than seemingly innocent enquiry, despite the intriguing nature of the suggestion.

The tri-annual Merton Winter Ball was to be held the evening of the 28th. Even if she knew about the ball (which was possible) there was no way she could know he wasn't planning to attend. So her suggestion had to be based on the assumption he was going. Was it a test of his willingness to make sacrifices for her company, or a way of giving him an honourable escape?

The vaguely amused expression on her face told Mycroft that at least her suggestion of the 28th hadn't been a coincidence. Time to flush her out, he thought.

“The 28th is the Winter Ball at Merton.”

“Oh, is it?”

Now she wasn't even trying to hide her amusement, and Mycroft felt his sense of humour engage with the notion. “All right. The 28th it is.”

“Okay, then.” She gave him a wide smile and Mycroft thought it might even be genuine. “Let me know where and when.”

“Of course.”

He nodded in reply to her airy wave as she finally departed, and the moment she walked out the door Mycroft felt a tiny groan escape him.

What had he done?

Instead of turning his attention back to editing his econometrics paper, Mycroft fell into a funk of second-guessing himself for leaping at this “solution” without adequate analysis. While he'd made a brief, hand-wavy attempt, he now saw that he'd allowed his desperation to get the better of him. And now the deed was done, he would have to conduct a proper assessment of the situation and come up with a remediation plan, if necessary.

He knew that at the moment he had no viable alternatives other than to waste even more of his precious time finding another candidate. As an exercise, he glanced around the room and was able to eliminate every single woman in it (too old, too obviously stupid, too vulgar, too slovenly, too ugly, too—_artistic_, for lack of a better word).

While Christina Martin was far from the ideal candidate, she wasn't irrevocably flawed, either. One could presume that as she was a Rhodes scholar, she possessed at least a modicum of intelligence and the ability to string a sentence together that wouldn't make him want to blow his brains out. She was reasonably attractive, if somewhat medium everything (not that _he_ was much of a prize in that department, Mycroft knew), and based on two very brief conversations, had displayed evidence of a modicum of wit. There were infinitely worse options, he knew. He wondered if he should perhaps flip a coin to decide if he should sit or shift, but the idea offended his principles on a number of fronts.

Back in his room at Merton that night, Mycroft sat on his bed, staring at a 50p coin. He rubbed his thumb along one of the blunted corners, wondering if he could live with the randomness of letting fate or mathematics or whatever would rule the toss, guide such a pivotal moment in his life. Then he realised he was being melodramatic. At the very worst the Martin girl would just bore him to tears, and he supposed he could live with that for a few months.

~ + ~

_Polite, but distant. Friendly, but not encouraging_, Mycroft played over and over in his head as he tied his tie. The evening to come promised a cavalcade of horrors, but he knew it was unavoidable if he were to have any hope of peace when he went home for Christmas.

Elaine Rutherford (neé Carmichael) had been his mother’s best friend since they’d been schoolgirls together. For some reason, the two women had always thought their sons were destined to be best friends, as well, especially as they’d been born only two months apart. When Elaine Rutherford had returned to Britain fourteen years ago with an American husband and child in tow, the two old friends had taken every opportunity possible to throw Mycroft and David together, with the assumption that their mothers’ long-standing affection would automatically translate to their sons, by force of their mothers’ will if for no other reason.

It had not.

To Mycroft’s continuing dismay, David had imprinted on him immediately, like a deprived and needy duckling. Mycroft had never wanted an acolyte or a shadow, nor an ambulatory, chattering plaything. Coming between the births of Sherlock and Eurus, David’s sudden appearance in Mycroft’s life had always seemed like his mother’s ridiculous idea of a _pet_, to somehow make up for the fact she no longer had any time for him after almost seven years of him being an only child.

The situation seemed to have been resolved when the Rutherfords moved to York, with the breathing space of a four hour drive between them. But three years later David had popped up at Marlborough, and all hell had broken loose. For Mycroft had made a horrific mistake that year which revealed David’s insistence on attending that school for what it was: the first stage of a protracted stalking campaign.

Mycroft’s mistake had been born of desperation, exhaustion, and (he had to admit) his own innate laziness, coupled with a momentary lapse of common sense and allowing himself to capitulate to someone else’s preconceptions about him. He’d caved in to David’s pursuit and while the data confirming his non-heterosexuality had some value to him, the cost had been extraordinarily high. Inadvertently feeding David’s delusion that the two of them “belonged together” had escalated the situation from annoyance to persistent headache. 

Now it seemed David was calling in the big guns to redouble the siege against Mycroft’s resistance. When they'd gone up to Oxford, Mycroft had assumed David would find someone else to fixate on, but the early imprinting and one lapse of judgement on Mycroft’s part still held, likely encouraged by his equally-delusional mother. And now Mycroft had allowed himself to be manipulated into spending three hours with the entire clan, politely refusing to acknowledge any of this history in an effort to not alienate his mother’s oldest friend, while at the same time discouraging her frankly insane son. He mollified himself with the idea that it would be good practice for dealing with Cabinet Ministers in the future, but that didn’t make him feel any better about it.

By the time he arrived at the restaurant, Mycroft felt he’d manoeuvred himself into the right frame of mind to get through the evening with his virtue (such as it was) and sanity intact: vigilant, resolute, unyielding. He anticipated hours of friendly, aggressive, coordinated assaults on his ramparts, but knew that if he politely held his ground he would prevail.

The sight of Elaine Rutherford, her most reptilian smile on and arms outstretched in greeting as if he were some long-lost and not entirely forgiven prodigal, almost had him tucking his tail between his legs and running. But he hitched a probably not very convincing smile on and entered the enfolding arms. As Mrs Rutherford was only three inches shorter than him and a former Olympic pentathlete, the effect was almost suffocating.

“Hey, Mycroft, good to see you.” Mr Rutherford slapped Mycroft on the back, almost knocking him and Mrs Rutherford into a ficus. Mr Rutherford’s native Oklahoman “folksiness” had diminished not one whit in the years he’d lived in England. That, combined with the bumbling heft of a former American football player meant that social engagement often resulted in bumps and bruises.

David grinned at Mycroft over his mother’s shoulder and gave him a feigned conspiratorial “God, I apologise for them, aren’t they _awful_” expression that Mycroft knew to be wholly false. David and his terrifying parents adored one another.

Mycroft patted Mrs Rutherford’s shoulder and forced himself to make mildly conciliatory noises while not pulling away from her horrendous over-familiarity until she released him.

“Mycroft.” David grinned at him and Mycroft felt his insides go cold.

“David. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

The maitre d’ led them to their table and for the next five minutes Mycroft was allowed some relief as he pretended indecision about what to order. Eventually, though, the onslaught resumed.

“How long’s it been since we’ve seen you, young man?” Mr Rutherford boomed, drawing admonishing glances from the elderly Oxford worthies at the surrounding tables.

“Have you seen much of your uncle lately?” Mrs Rutherford asked, diving in at the deep end and flashing her harpoons at Mycroft from the off.

“How’s the studying going? Looking forward to getting out into the big bad world, I bet,” Mr Rutherford added, and Mycroft wondered how feasible it would be to get through the evening without having to say anything at all, by letting the Rutherfords tag-team questions at him.

He knew Mrs Rutherford wouldn’t let him off, though; she was obviously expecting an answer. Mycroft stared back at her for a moment or two while he wondered what uncomfortable subject David would insist on bringing up, solely to reinforce the hellishness. But David kept silent, watching him, inexplicably (yet characteristically) choosing the time least convenient to Mycroft to finally learn some discretion.

“He keeps in touch occasionally,” he eventually replied. _And please feel free to pass that along to my mother when you report in to her tonight, you loathsome old trout_, he added in his mind.

When the waiter came to take their order, Mycroft watched in mute horror as David and his mother teased and flirted like a pair of schoolgirls over what they would—as opposed to “should”—order and Mycroft suppressed a shudder at the sheer inanity. While he recognised that his relationship with his own mother was far from ideal, there had to be some sane middle ground between Holmes-style sniping to the death at ten paces and the nauseating displays the Rutherfords got up to. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Mr Rutherford look on, an indulgent smile on his face.

Was this how “happy” people behaved, Mycroft wondered.

“Happiness”, or what not very bright people thought of as happiness, was not something he wasted a lot of thought on. From what he could tell, “happiness” seemed to consist largely of (a) a state of perpetual childhood, or (b) having more money than your friends. If the display going on in front of him had been performed by anyone other than David and his mother, Mycroft might have observed out of anthropological curiosity, but he knew he needed to be wary of seeming interested, which would only result in— 

“Do you two get to spend much time together?” Mr Rutherford asked Mycroft, with a remarkable acuity for finding exactly the topic he wanted to avoid.

“Not as much as we’d like to,” David butted in, causing Mycroft’s stomach to burst into an acidic ball of flame then wither into black, greasy ash.

“We have one class together. Econometrics,” Mycroft replied, ignoring David’s contribution. “And this year is particularly busy.”

“Yeah, of course. Exams coming up. But you still need to make time for friends, young man. All work and no play, eh?”

Mycroft glanced around the table, from one expectantly smiling face to another, and felt as though he were being gently, inexorably driven into a corner by rabbits. Even Mrs Rutherford, ordinarily more virago than pet, seemed to be waiting with bated breath for some sort of declaration from him.

Why did they want him? Why did these people, who for all the years Mycroft had known them had seemed to cherish their only child, consider Mycroft an appropriate partner for him? Was it simply that they’d overcome their scruples in the face of David’s delusions that Mycroft was who he wanted?

Was it fair for him to continue this charade? Then Mycroft wondered if he should put all of them out of their misery by telling them he “had a girlfriend”. David’s anxious face put paid to the notion of doing it at that moment, though. Not on his birthday. Not even he was that much of a shit, Mycroft realised to his own surprise.

“Perhaps after exams,” he eventually mumbled, head down as if embarrassed that he might be overwhelmed by his workload.

“Margaret expects too much of you,” Mrs Rutherford said and Mycroft almost goggled at her. He’d never heard even a whisper of anything other than unquestioning admiration for his mother from her. 

“No more than I do myself,” he replied automatically.

~ + ~


	3. Did you really come here to discuss the validity of game theory?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft goes on a date, gets in a fight, is accosted, and despite his best efforts begins to make headway on Rudy's plan.

In the days leading up to the Winter Ball, Mycroft was increasingly glad he had an excellent excuse not to attend. While he hadn't planned to go in the first place, his upcoming date with Christina alleviated the tiny niggle of unease he'd felt for so openly flaunting expectations; doing so was more revealing that he ordinarily liked to be.

The daily-ratcheting excitement among the girls in the college seemed to infest the air like a stultifying pollen that he couldn't avoid, so Mycroft escaped by spending as little time at Merton as he could. Fortunately for him the weather was fine for November, so he escaped to a bench in the Oxford Botanical Garden, pretending to himself that he hadn't been driven from his home by a bunch of over-excited teenaged girls.

As the evening of the date approached, Mycroft felt a growing unease, though he tried to put it down to the fact he was launching into unfamiliar territory on a number of fronts. He tried to have no expectations of his first date. Firstly, he had no idea what to expect; secondly, he knew expectations were always a trap to be avoided. In his life he’d had so little contact with people from such a dissimilar background to his that he wondered if he and Christina would manage to find anything to talk about.

Dressing that evening, he ran through his mental list of possible topics he could use to lead the conversation: her thesis (everyone liked talking about themselves), Oxford (as a foreigner, did she feel as though she fit in?), family (as long as she didn’t expect him to talk about his), and Harry (Mycroft was genuinely interested in how that friendship had come about). He suspected that cultural matters would be either beyond her or they’d have nothing in common to discuss. So it was to his consternation that within ten minutes of their arrival at the restaurant, she’d grabbed control of the conversation and turned it to the subject of dating.

“So, does Harry make a habit of setting you up?” she asked as she handed her menu to their waiter.

“Harry didn’t set us up.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him as she leant back in her chair. “Yeah, he did.”

“He introduced us; hardly the same thing.”

Mycroft could tell she wasn’t convinced, but thankfully she let the topic go. For three seconds, before she circled back. “So he hasn’t set you up before?”

Mycroft realised he was glaring at her and forced himself to stop. Even he knew that was hardly acceptable dating behaviour. She only smiled, folding her hands on her lap.

“Has he ‘set you up’ before?”

She nodded and he was glad she refrained from calling him out on answering a question with another question. “A couple of times.”

Mycroft ensured she couldn't see his annoyance; she'd held him off for weeks while she'd fished for something better? Beyond the lies and appalling manners, what was she playing at?. His scheme would hardly be a success if his fake girlfriend was seeing other people at the same time as him. “And how did that go for you?”

She shrugged. “Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that. I think after two disasters he must have got desperate, because he set me up with a girl, then.”

_Why is Harry so desperate to set her up? How does Harry fit into all this? Is Rudy using him, as well?_

At the prospect of his Plan A being shot out of a cannon, Mycroft must have let his dismay show, as she explained, “No, really, it was fine. God knows, lots of people assume I’m a dyke because I play sports, so I’m used to it. She was nice; we had a great time, actually.”

“I’m amazed Harry even knows someone like that.”

As soon as the words leapt out of his mouth, Mycroft knew he’d been inexcusably sloppy, because he received the cocked eyebrow again. He prayed it was only a rebuke for presumed homophobia.

“She’s his girlfriend’s cousin,” was delivered in slightly leaden tones.

“Catherine?” Mycroft was astonished; he’d met her and never even suspected.

“Yes.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Yes, she is.” Christina paused, before adding with a slightly off-kilter smile. “And _fantastic_ in the sack.”

_Canada one, England nil_, he thought as he conceded her point with a slight nod. “So Harry got it right in the end.”

She shook her head, her smile hardening a little.

“Then why—?” 

“Why not? I’m up for anything once. Within reason.”

Mycroft couldn’t help it: he openly stared at her. How could she be so blasé about something so important?

“That hardly seems fair to Catherine.”

“I was up-front about the situation.”

Mycroft had no trouble imagining that. Before he managed to formulate a response, she asked him, “What about you?”

Mycroft went very still, forcing himself to not flinch, nor so much as blink. Then he realised this reaction would be interpreted as telling in its own way. Then he sighed; the “date” was rapidly turning into a bad simulation of dinner with his uncle. “What about me?”

“Harry fixed you up with any guys?”

He forced his tone into the mild offence any reasonably intelligent, non-bigoted straight man would have at the question. “No, of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’?”

“He would never presume—” 

“He did with me.”

“And with good reason, apparently.”

“Oh, come on.” Mycroft was relieved to see her smiling now; she’d downgraded the conversation from sexual history inquisition to a misguided attempt at banter. “He told me all about that school you went to. You’re telling me there’s no dormitory rumpy pumpy in your past?” 

Mycroft couldn’t help himself: he laughed, at both the silliness and his relief that she had the brains to recognise she'd gone too far. Also, it was as much an admission than if he’d agreed with her, but with the added benefit of implying he thought her amusing, which could only help his cause. “Well—”

“No, no, no; no holding out on me now. I told you about my Sapphic experiment.” She leant forward. “Was it Harry?”

Mycroft paused, startled, and told himself she’d gone in that direction simply because Harry was the only former classmate of his she knew. He wondered if now was the time to rein in the conversation before it got completely out of hand. “A gentleman never tells.”

She gave him a mock glare. “I guess at some point I might find that attitude useful.”

It took Mycroft a split second to catch the implication of that statement. She only watched as a mortifying blush rose up his neck and over his face and he speculated that embarrassing him might have been her sole intention for turning the conversation in that direction.

While he collected himself, she appeared to be barely holding off a follow-up comment, but she’d decided to give him the grace of a possible rebuttal instead of delivering the killing stroke. 

He bucked up his courage and declined the opportunity.

The silence between them sparkled with tension, then the corners of her mouth hooked up, hinting at a tiny, conspiratorial smile like a salute from the other end of the piste. She was a fencer, and he barely refrained from groaning at the realisation that she was more skilled than him at even the _metaphor_ of their interaction, much less the actuality of it.

She waited, sure and steady on her metaphorical feet, for his reply. So he made a mirror of her smile to the best of his ability. And then hers turned into a real one and Mycroft was surprised to see a hint of colour appear on her cheeks, as well.

He’d passed the first test, apparently, and Mycroft allowed himself to feel relieved that he might not have to find another candidate after all. He rejected the first seven replies that came to mind as either naïve, off-putting or inexcusably stupid. “Harry will be thrilled to have finally hit the mark,” he finally said.

She let off a little chirrup of laughter and for no reason Mycroft could discern, seemed relieved.

“I thought for a second there I might have stepped over the line,” she explained.

“Why?”

“Harry told me to go easy on you. And I can be a bit—” She glanced away for a moment before turning back to him. “Much,” she finally settled on.

Mycroft saw now that all the bravado had been a front, and decided a bit of graciousness on his part wouldn’t go amiss. “Well, I can assure you I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“I’ve met Harry's girlfriend, so I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

They shared brief smiles across the table as their waiter arrived with their meals.

From that point onward the tenor of the evening shifted, as Christina left behind her probing examination of the boundaries of his tolerance and de-escalated to generally amiable conversation. As they left the initial spikiness behind, Mycroft felt himself relax into discussions of impersonal matters. This was more the sort of thing he’d been expecting. He was pleasantly surprised to discover she could hold up her end of a conversation that extended beyond discomfiting dating anecdotes. Though for the sake of his scheme’s success, he decided to overlook her ridiculous opinions on Bach, the usefulness of the European Economic Area, and Mankading.

“No, no, no. The Laws say it’s within the rules,” she protested.

“But it’s contrary to the Spirit of Cricket.”

“Oh, god, spirit, schmirit; if the rules allow it, it’s fair. Period.” She paused as the waiter cleared their plates and Mycroft took the opportunity to weigh in.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. There’s a deal of nuance—”

“Could you be a little more patronising? And yes, I do understand. Hockey’s exactly the same about fighting: it’s not allowed, except when it is. So don’t tell me I don’t understand _nuance_.” She opened her mouth to continue, then obviously thought better of it. 

Mycroft decided to brave the gap. “Why are we arguing about this?”

“Because we both like to argue? Or maybe we both just like being right too much.”

Mycroft decided the conversation needed a course change before real rancour set in. “But I always _am_ right,” he replied with the most over-the-top offended pomposity he could muster. Her laughter was too loud, but Mycroft knew it was a small price to pay for avoiding a conversational train wreck.

“Sorry, I’m being a bore. That’s not supposed to happen until after we sleep together.”

There was a long, mortifying pause as she realised what she’d said and Mycroft wasn’t sure whether he was more embarrassed for himself or for her. He chose himself.

Looking away, she glanced at her watch. “Oh my god, it’s almost ten o’clock.”

“Will you be turning into a pumpkin?”

“No. But we’ve been here almost three hours and we need to keep something back for the next date.”

Mycroft had difficulty imagining he’d be able to come up with a subject she didn’t have an opinion on, so didn’t think the conversational well would ever run dry. Then he noticed the entirely of what she’d said, and his face must have shown his surprise. 

“So, was it as horrible as you were expecting?” Christina asked as she pulled on her coat.

“What do you mean?”

“When you got here you looked like you were walking to the gallows.”

“That’s a terribly forthright question. I’m not sure I’ll answer other than to say that first dates are always nerve-wracking.” Mycroft tried for teasing but could tell from her expression that he might have failed.

“I keep forgetting no one in this country tells the truth about anything,” she said as she turned for the door.

Mycroft caught the frown of an elderly gentleman who’d obviously heard her. “It’s why we’re so good at espionage,” he replied as he followed her. 

On the pavement, she turned back to him. “There’s not much point in always lying when everyone knows you always lie. The trick is to have a reputation for ruthless plain-speaking, while lying thirty percent of the time.”

“How do you know that isn't exactly what I've done?”

She smiled and Mycroft suspected it might be the first real smile of hers he'd seen that evening. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They stared at each other, stepping aside to let another couple walk past into the restaurant. For a moment there was a tense expectancy hovering between them that Mycroft had no idea what to do about. He thought it was a damned inconvenient moment for her to suddenly let him take the lead now they’d reached the point where he had no idea what to do.

“Um. _Hmph_.” Mycroft stared at his feet, as if he might find the solution printed across the tips of his brogues in ink visible only to him. 

Then he felt a light tap on his shoulder and he looked up to her.

“Thank you. For dinner,” she said, taking the initiative again, and Mycroft recognised he was going to have to step up his efforts or before he knew it she’d be in control of the entire situation.

He met her eye as she doggedly held out her hand and waited for his manners to catch up. 

“You’re welcome.” Shaking her hand felt slightly ridiculous and he wondered if she were mocking him, albeit gently.

“Let’s do this again,” she said with a formality that was definitely mocking, if perhaps not him. He hoped.

“Yes, lets,” he replied in the exact same tones.

She stepped closer and Mycroft forced himself to not step back. “How about Friday?”

“I thought you weren’t available on weeknights.”

“Since when is Friday a weeknight?” She cocked her head as she watched for his reaction. “Though I’d bet for you, every night is a weeknight.”

Mycroft had no idea how to respond to that, so he avoided her gaze as he pulled on his gloves. “Friday, then,” he replied, forcing a smile, though he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to.

“Okay. I’ll choose this time.”

Mycroft’s head snapped up; she chuckled at the expression on his face. “I’ll make to pick somewhere you won’t get food poisoning.”

They stood in the thickening drizzle, each waiting for the other to leave first. Seconds ticked over while Mycroft’s mind scrambled for a feasible exit line so that he could escape.

“Well, I guess I'll see you on Friday, then,” Christina eventually said and Mycroft internally cursed himself for being such a lump.

“Yes. Until Friday.”

She was still watching him, making no move to leave. Mycroft mentally shrugged and left, forcing himself to amble away as if he had not a care in the world while his mind scrambled to sort out his reactions to what had happened.

By the time he reached the Merton gates it had stopped raining, and Mycroft had come to the somewhat disheartening conclusion that he had no idea whether or not the “date” had been a success. The promise of a follow-up engagement implied it hadn't been a complete failure, so he supposed he could congratulate himself that Rudy, at least, would be satisfied. And after all, fooling his invisible auditors was the point, wasn't it?

Mycroft sighed as he sat on his bed, halfway undressed. He couldn't figure out the source of his discontent. Why was he disappointed? The evening had, after all, fulfilled its requirements and to all appearances had launched him into the universe of superficial ordinariness: a woman, socialising and (presumably) physical intimacy in his near future. Not an entirely unwelcome prospect, but the recognition did nothing to alleviate the unease whose source he couldn't identify in the half hour he dedicated to it as he prepared for bed.

An hour later, tossing and turning, he fumed as he failed to put aside the conundrum swirling through his mind. Perhaps he should just give in and masturbate; that usually helped him sleep. But what if he thought of her while he—that stopped his hand as his fingertips slipped under the elastic of his pyjama bottoms. 

No, it was too soon to be worrying about that, he reassured himself as he continued in his quest for relief, then sleep.

~ + ~

For the next few days, Mycroft put the events of Saturday evening out of his mind. He'd largely failed to come up with any coherent sense of what exactly had happened, so he reasoned that until he had more data there wasn't much point wasting mental resources on it. He was still uneasy, though, at having to resort to Harry's odd friend as unknowing collaborator in this little scheme, even though he knew he had no other available options that didn't entail greater risks. 

The only persistent niggle in his mind—well, two niggles—were Rudy and Harry's likely reaction to Mycroft's choice. Rudy, he knew, would think her unfeasible as a solution: too outside their class to be believable, and as someone from such a different background, too unpredictable. In the short term, Harry's reaction would be positive—he had thrown them at each other with this in mind, after all. But what would his response be when Mycroft dumped her once he no longer needed her? It would depend on how it happened, he supposed. He put the notion aside as something to worry about when and if he needed to.

When an “invitation” arrived a few days later from his uncle, Mycroft had no illusions as to what the conversation would be about.

When they sat down to dinner that Thursday evening, there was little in the way of preliminaries by Rudy's standards.

“I'd have thought Clive Fitzhugh's daughter would better serve your purposes.”

Mycroft didn't know _what_ to make of that statement. Did his uncle think him an idiot? “I need a cover story, not a wife. Twenty-two is much too young to be shoved on the Marriage Train. Imagine what Mummy's response would be if she were to find out I was seeing a Fitzhugh.”

Rudy chortled a little into his menu. “Indeed. And the Martin girl—”

“Is disposable.”

Mycroft saw something in his uncle's eyes that he couldn't identify. Whatever it was, it disappeared in an instant, replaced by Rudy's usual bland mask of unconcern.

“What's she like?” Rudy asked in his casually-not-casual way.

“Ordinary. Brighter than average, but nothing exceptional. Appalling manners, but that's to be expected, I suppose, considering her background.”

“That must be a trial.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I see worse from some of our kind every day in this place.”

“And you're keeping track, I suppose.”

“Young fools don't gain wisdom with the years; they just become old fools. And Cabinet ministers.” Rudy feigned mild amusement at the jibe and Mycroft knew the man was distracted. “It will be fine,” Mycroft continued. He was surprised at how subdued his uncle's reaction was to his choice of Christina, but he could tell Rudy was focusing on the potential problems rather than the positive aspects.

“Do you think anyone will accept it's even feasible for you to be interested in her?”

It took Mycroft a second to realise the implied criticism was levelled at Christina and not him. “As long as they don't meet her.” At Rudy's almost startled expression, Mycroft clarified. “On paper she seems a reasonable choice. And there's no reason for anyone I know to meet her.”

“I suppose we've finally found a benefit to your anti-social nature.” Mycroft ignored the poor attempt to bait him as his uncle continued, “Harry Abernathy introduced you?”

“He seems to like her.”

Rudy's scepticism was palpable, and Mycroft wondered if it was just pique at Mycroft making his own choices about how he would execute his uncle's plan. If so, it was rather petty of him; after all, Rudy wasn't the one having to make this particular sacrifice. Mycroft was tempted to demand his uncle solicit Bevan's opinion of the situation, seeing as the man apparently held views on Mycroft's judgement that his uncle considered noteworthy. But answering pettiness with like was hardly the way to keep his uncle satisfied enough to stay off his back.

“Was there anything else you wanted?” Mycroft eventually asked, breaking his uncle's reverie of staring at the floral arrangement in the centre of the table as if he were a judge at a village fête.

“Have you heard from Sherlock recently?”

This was definitely _not_ what Mycroft had been expecting and he didn't bother hiding his surprise, though he doubted Rudy even noticed. “Not since he stormed out of my rooms when I attempted to give him the help he so obviously wanted.”

Rudy nodded, absently. “When will you see the Martin girl again?”

“You're claiming you don't know already?”

“Don't be peevish.”

“Don't be boring, then. And stop pretending you're not having me followed.”

“I'm not.” Rudy sighed and for a moment seemed genuinely affected by Mycroft's snit, though he knew it was mostly likely just pretense of sympathy as an attempt to hold his allegiance and therefore his obedience. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Are you going to continue to insult my intelligence by pretending you don't know already?” Mycroft fired straight back.

Rudy stared at him for a few seconds, then glanced at their waiter to summon him. After a few whispered words, the waiter left and Rudy stood. “Please stay for dinner. I'm afraid I have to return to London.” At Mycroft's obvious surprise, Rudy added. “There's no reason for me to stay if you're going to be like this.”

As Mycroft watched his uncle pretend to leave, he knew it was a sham; Rudy was expecting an apology, a gesture of submission, but Mycroft was hardly in the mood. After a few more tense seconds, Rudy seemed to realise Mycroft wasn't going to play, so with little ceremony he made his good-byes and left.

Mycroft congratulated himself on his restraint; Rudy's failed power play spawned a series of withering replies in Mycroft's mind, like a waterfall in spring flood. None of them would be appropriate to say out loud, as all of them focused on Rudy's hypocrisy. Someone who quit the game at the first sign of resistance, while persistently demanding Mycroft knuckle under and fight through every obstacle, was someone who wasn't worthy of Mycroft's respect, much less deference.

He had long known Rudy could be quixotic, but he'd never witnessed petulance of this sort before. If it was a regular feature of his behaviour, it went some way toward explaining Rudy's personal and professional failures.

Regardless, the waiter stood by and Mycroft thought he might as well take advantage of the opportunity for a decent meal. So he placed his order with the relish of one who does so at someone else's expense. 

~ + ~

The next morning, as he was leaving for a lecture, Mycroft was flagged down by one of the college porters waving a note from Christina. He wondered how early she must have awoken if she'd delivered the message to Merton from Nuffield before 8:30 in the morning. Mycroft suppressed a tiny shudder at the idea of dating a morning person.

As he suspected, the note regarded their second date; to his surprise it included a ticket to a Tallis Scholars performance at Merton Chapel that afternoon. He didn't know what surprised him more: the short notice or the nature of the engagement. Knowledge of Renaissance polyphony hardly fit the impression of her he'd gained so far, but perhaps she was stretching her boundaries in an attempt to accommodate what she assumed his interests might be. Mycroft loathed Renaissance polyphony, but he recognised that he should at least appreciate the effort. Or apology, he realised, looking back on their strange first date. 

On the other hand, she'd not given him any notice, which was irksome. He might have had a lecture that afternoon (he didn't), or he might be seeing Harry (he wasn't), or any of a hundred possible commitments might be on his schedule (they weren't). Mycroft didn't know whether he should be annoyed at her presumption or mildly impressed at her resourcefulness in discovering his schedule.

Regardless, he _didn't_ have anything planned for that afternoon other than re-typing a paper, and while the manners ground into him by his mother's upbringing recoiled at the idea, he brushed aside the propriety of sending Christina a note to confirm their date. Let her spend the day wondering if he'd bother showing up, he thought as he headed off to class.

In the end, Christina appeared not at all surprised when Mycroft arrived at their rendezvous seven hours later; he couldn't decide if it was obliviousness or over-confidence on her part. As he entered the chapel from the college entrance, she saw him and smiled; her apparent relaxation was in marked contrast to his greater nerves compared to the previous Saturday evening.

“How are you doing?” she asked as he joined her on the edge of the small chattering crowd at the end of the nave.

Mycroft glanced at the people milling around them, then back to her. Whatever had happened over the course of the last six days seemed to agree with her, as she appeared—knowing, would be the word Mycroft would have chosen if he'd been forced to. It was as if she possessed a secret she hadn't yet decided whether she would share with him.

Then he realised she was still waiting patiently for a reply. “Fine.” Even he realised _that_ response was hardly friendly, so he added, “Busy, of course. The grind to exams.”

She only nodded, obviously wanting him to stop drafting in her wake, conversation-wise.

“What was your final year like?” Mycroft winced internally at how trite the question was, but at least it would give her the opportunity to talk about herself; in his experience, that satisfied most people in regards to social niceties.

The subject seemed to surprise her; perhaps she thought it beneath him. Then she shrugged. “Universities back home are organised differently. We have exams at the end of each course, rather than getting all of them at the end of the program. It's easier to change programs in the middle, too. A lot less stressful than what you go through here, I imagine.”

Mycroft decided he was going to pay attention when she spoke, so he noticed her complete lack of enthusiasm for the topic. “In a way that makes sense. Forcing people to choose a degree while still in school and stick to it has always seemed overly restrictive to me. Not everyone knows their own mind at sixteen.”

He watched Christina assessing his own lack of interest in the subject; he glanced over her shoulder and barely held back a groan. Striding through the door was Amanda and her friend Kate, and before he could look away, she noticed him. She smiled and changed direction to head their way, and Mycroft girded himself for a tiresome outburst of female competitiveness of one kind or another.

“Hello,” Amanda greeted him as she walked up. When she noticed Christina, her smile hitched slightly before making an almost full recovery.

“Hello.” Now he was confronted with the decision, Mycroft hesitated; but the needs of the plan had to supersede his natural inclination and proper precedence. “Christina, I'd like to introduce Amanda Fitzhugh. She's at Merton, as well.”

If Amanda was surprised by the manner of his introduction, she hid it well. The women greeted each other and engaged in idle chit chat while measuring each other up. Mycroft and Kate turned their respective backs to them and pretended to scan the crowd for people they knew. 

There was no question that someone as socially astute as Amanda understood what was going on, and Mycroft realised this was likely the best possible way for word to get around about his situation vis-à-vis Christina. Amanda would spread the news amongst their circle of acquaintance, hopefully behind his back so that he wouldn't have to listen to it, and requiring no involvement on his part. From that perspective, this meeting was a stroke of luck.

“She seems nice,” Christina commented as she watched Amanda follow Kate to their seats, head held high.

“She is.”

Christina turned back to him and Mycroft warily examined her face for her reaction. He was glad to see only curiosity there.

“She likes you,” she added, watching him just as warily.

“Perhaps.”

“You know she does. Not even you’re that oblivious.”

“I choose to accept the compliment and ignore the rebuke.”

Christina glanced back in the direction Amanda had left. “She’s nice. Smart. Decent looking. Obviously likes you. Right kind of family. So why am I here instead of her?”

Mycroft knew there was no point arguing any of her observations; they were all true. But he was annoyed with himself for not anticipating she would ask. A moment’s thought would have warned him that they would run into Amanda at some point; Oxford was hardly London.

Christina waited for his reaction, a bland, bemused smile on. He did his best to make sure she couldn’t see how annoyed he was at her almost-palpable examination. To hide his consternation he lead her to the seats and settled in. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her sitting, unblinking and eerily still, and Mycroft sensed she silently revelled at his discomfort, though her level gaze to the front of the chapel revealed nothing other than interest in her surroundings.

_What response would she want? What would appeal most to her ego?_

“She’s boring,” he finally replied.

After a second, Christina nodded, then turned to him with a hint of a smile. Then she chuckled at a private thought as she toyed with the cuff of her blouse and Mycroft wondered if he was really interested enough to see if he could make her share it.

“Was she at Marlborough, too?”

He nodded, hoping to discourage her curiosity. He wasn’t interested in a conversation about Amanda, as there was no safe destination he could see if Christina insisted on pursuing one.

“You haven’t made friends at Oxford, then?” At Mycroft’s startled expression she backpedalled, apologetic. “Sorry, that came out way worse than I meant.”

Mycroft had no idea how to respond. The accuracy of it stung, for reasons he couldn’t fathom at the moment. Why should he care what she thought of his life? It only took him a couple of seconds to recover. “You don’t count yourself?”

She seemed genuinely perplexed by the question. “We barely know each other.”

“All friendships start that way.”

“I suppose so. And you haven’t bothered since you were at school. That's an observation, by the way, not a criticism.”

Mycroft knew she was challenging him, but didn’t understand why, even though her tone was more curious than accusatory. Was he really that sensitive? Perhaps Rudy had been right: he’d allowed his social skills to become inexcusably stunted over the last few years. “I've—made acquaintances. But you're right, no close friends.”

“For someone with such crappy social skills, you’ve got nice friends.” She settled back into her inquisitorial hands-folded-on-lap attitude that he had begun to recognise. “It makes me curious to find out what they see in you.”

“I’m a man of hidden depths.”

“Apparently. I mean, Harry seems a decent judge of character.”

“So says the woman he’s taken under his wing.”

She laughed quietly, glancing around at the settling audience. “Exhibit A: one dysfunctional Canadian, and the attempted redemption thereof.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You’re his Caliban?”

“Nice analogy, thanks.” She paused, her smile slowly dissipating. “I doubt very much he’d presume to take the role of Prospero. Not really his style, is it?”

“No,” he agreed.

“Harry’s different. He’s a romantic.”

“Yes, he is.” Mycroft paused, waiting for her to comment, which she declined to do. “So. You and Harry. How did that happen?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you it was rude to answer a question with another question?”

“I'll tell you about me and Harry if you tell me about you and Harry.” She smiled, showing all her teeth.

Mycroft refrained from rising to her bait, using the arrival of the singers as an excuse not to reply.

The performance itself was as boring as Mycroft had expected. He'd long known he had no ear for music—that was Sherlock's bailiwick, while his was the visual arts—but Christina seemed to enjoy it.

By the end, Mycroft had been praying for almost 30 minutes for redemption of an entirely different nature from that invoked by the singers. Christina appeared strangely content with the performance, so Mycroft looked forward to her being in a decent mood and hopefully letting him off the hook for the rest of the day.

“You hated that, didn't you?” she asked as they followed the rest of the herd down the nave.

“I wouldn't say _hated_,” he scrambled for a reply that wouldn't be too patently false, considering she'd caught him with his eyes half-closed and a pained expression twice.

She only arched an eyebrow before asking, “Coffee. The least I can do, considering the agony I've put you through.”

Mycroft suggested a cafe which produced significantly better than run-of-the-mill student drek, and she agreed with a smile.

When they'd settled at a table, she looked to him expectantly.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I believe you owe me a story.”

Mycroft frowned for a moment, which elicited a tiny chuckle, then began.

“Harry and I met at Marlborough, as I’m sure he’s already told you.” He paused as she nodded. “He was a prefect. I was fourteen when my family sent me away to school—” _After my sister murdered my brother's best friend and tried to kill the entire family by burning our home down and my mother finally had an excuse to get rid of me._ He paused when he saw that Christina had obvious caught the insinuation behind his words, but she didn’t pounce and demand an explanation, so he didn’t draw her attention to their significance by explaining what he’d meant. “I—had difficulty fitting in. Harry took me under his wing.”

She smiled. “So he's always done that.” She paused and looked away to watch a couple two tables away for a second before continuing, still not meeting Mycroft’s eye as she toyed with her cup. “He’s kind. That’s rare.”

“Yes, it is.”

She turned back to him and he sensed some kind of undercurrent to her words, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to bother trying to deduce what it might be. “He sees the best in people, even when there’s no best there,” she said.

Mycroft wondered if that comment referred to him or herself. “Yes, he does. Sometimes to his own detriment.”

“Perfect example: that fiancé of his.” Mycroft only smiled very faintly in reply as she continued. “She’ll be a drunk before she’s forty, and Harry’ll spend the rest of his life blaming himself, so he’ll never leave her and she’ll make him miserable. He deserves better, but you’d never get him to believe it.”

Mycroft blinked twice in the face of her sudden spitefulness. “Have you tried?”

“Hell no. He’d think I wanted him for myself.”

“Don’t you?”

“No more than you do.” She grinned at his horrified expression. 

Mycroft waited for some sort of punchline at his expense, but none came. Their waiter arrived with a plate of small, expensive-looking pastries that Christina must have ordered while Mycroft had been in the loo. She set on them, cutting each in half.

“Harry’s quite good-looking. For an Englishman.”

Mycroft didn’t bother hiding his indignation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Pasty. I don’t think pasty’s particularly attractive.” She paused, staring at her now-motionless hands. “I didn’t mean—”

“No. That’s fine.” Mycroft wasn’t sure if he should feel sorry for her, even though he sympathised a little, knowing full well the horror of the unintentional social blunder.

She finally met his eyes and her embarrassment was such that Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to berate her. 

“I mean—” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

She essayed a poor attempt at a smile, giving it up as a lost cause halfway through. Mycroft watched her mind whirl through a number of possible escapes from the hole she’d dug for herself. The one she chose surprised him. 

“You’re interesting.”

“What?”

“I hardly ever meet anyone interesting.”

He cut off an embarrassed laugh and had to look away, turning his attention back to his coffee to hide the blush creeping up his face. “That’s something, I suppose.”

“I'm sorry. I guess I should say something self-deprecating.”

“Please don’t bother.”

“I never said I was going to.”

Mycroft’s head snapped back up and she’d managed to find a real smile, even if it was on the rueful side. Before he could formulate a reply, she continued. “I’ve never been any good at self-deprecating.”

“I can’t imagine the attempt fooling anyone with half a brain.”

She chuckled and turned her attention to selecting a variety of half-pastries. “I’m not much of a liar.”

Mycroft doubted that very much, but kept his own counsel on the matter.

While he watched her eat, Mycroft wondered if his and Christina's conversation reflected the norm for dating. He doubted it; but then, if she was “normal” would she be willing to date him? They seemed to him more like mini inquisitions, with Christina cast in the role of inquisitor. 

Applying logic to the matter, it seemed unlikely that this was the norm. Mycroft had always had the impression that dating was more like a highly-specialised form of job interview. But if that was the case, what job was Mycroft applying for, exactly?

She caught him watching her, and to his surprise, she gave him a sly wink as she chewed the last bite of his half of the chocolate croissant. He forced himself to not react, as he had no idea what she'd meant by it. Instead, he just cocked an eyebrow, which she seemed to find amusing.

Later that evening, as he finished re-typing his paper on the Coalition Government, he remembered: she never did tell him how she'd met Harry. 

~ + ~

To Mycroft's complete lack of surprise, Amanda turned out to be a highly effective gossip broadcaster. Within 24 hours, everyone at Merton seemed to know that he had a “girlfriend” who was a Rhodes Scholar of economics at Nuffield. By Saturday afternoon he'd become the subject of unaccustomed scrutiny, especially from the female members of his college. Over the course of the day he caught at least half a dozen examining him at a distance like some new-found species tripped over on their own doorstep. While Mycroft greatly disliked being the subject of a nine-day wonder, he knew it would be useful. 

That evening, while waiting to enter the hall, one of his least favourite classmates clapped him on the back in passing and declared he was, “Impressed, Holmes. Older woman at that,” before giving him a nauseating leer.

Mycroft tried to take it in his stride, but couldn't help but be amused at his “redemption” in the eyes of the idiots around him, now that this change in circumstances reassured them all that their suspicions about him had been in error. The asinine responses of the more childish “men” that surrounded him was tedious, but expected. Braying buffoons were an unfortunate reality when one strode the corridors of power, whether at school or (according to his uncle) in Whitehall.

The reaction of the female members of college was a revelation, though. Mycroft had spent the last eight years, since first being sent away to Marlborough, largely ignoring the girls and women around him, an attitude that had been largely reciprocated (with a few notable and startling exceptions). This state of affairs had never grieved him. In his teenaged years he'd assumed his disinterest was the result of latent homosexuality; he'd since learnt it was attributable to a more general misanthropy, rather than animosity toward just one sex. 

As he'd come into greater understanding of his own character over the years, he'd sometimes wondered if his coldness to women (again, with a few exceptions) was influenced by his fraught relationship with his mother and the shadow her perpetual dissatisfaction with him cast over all his personal relationships. 

But there were aspects of his past where understanding evaded him, even as he recognised the history hovering on the periphery of his consciousness. Even the logic he strove to make the foundation of his life was incapable of grasping the emotional resonances of the events leading to Eurus' incarceration. The fact that the fall-out was still unacknowledged and unresolved had to have some sort of lasting impact, Mycroft had always reasoned. Now that it had become an issue in his life, he wondered what was the cause and what the effect of the absence of meaningful relationships with women in his life and his inability to relate to them. His discomfort with the cost of addressing that failure indicated a weakness on his part, and there was no hope of his plan succeeding unless he rooted it out.

He'd never placed much store on psychoanalyzing himself. He found it too wooly, too unreliable and self-referential an approach to understanding anything, much less himself. Mycroft realised he was probably tying himself in knots for no good reason. Other people's opinions of him, the manner in which he related to them, weren't things he ordinarily wasted much time worrying about. He was who and what he was (whatever that might be) and he'd long ago accepted that his mind and his desire to keep almost all other people at arm's length for the sake of his own sanity meant his life would not be like other people's. “Ordinariness” held _no_ attraction for him, regardless of the fact that being who and what he was carried its own cost even beyond the not inconsiderable one of being his parents' son.

For the next few days Mycroft allowed himself to surf along the crest of his new-found notoriety. While he never sought attention in social situations, he was amused by what he knew would be a short-lived fashionability. People who never acknowledged him suddenly did, joining him for meals in the hall, greeting him as he crossed the quads, trailing along with him on the walk to lecture halls. He knew the attention was fleeting, so didn't let it bother him. He knew that in a few days some other new irrelevance would draw away the magpies in the constant quest for novelty, leaving Mycroft to fall back into the shadows of college life, where he preferred to be. So it was with surprise and some consternation that Mycroft found himself the recipient of unexpected and unprecedented attention from Peter Bishop. Because Peter Bishop embodied everything that Mycroft was not, and had no experience of.

Mycroft had never thought he had a “type”, at least not in terms of physical characteristics. The few boys and men (and later, women) he’d found attractive hadn't possessed a commonality of appearance. If he could be said to have a “type”, it was for people who were quiet, thoughtful, reasonably clever, with whom he had few or no interests in common, and who managed to overlook Mycroft’s idiosyncrasies and social inadequacies. He’d never had many expectations in regards to physical attractiveness beyond a certain point (he had _some_ standards, after all). But Peter Bishop was beyond Mycroft's expectation and experience: genuinely beautiful, intelligent, and for some reason, behaving as if he were interested in him.

Mycroft knew little about Bishop other than that he was working on a doctorate in History, and had briefly dated a conventionally attractive young man the year below his. They had had no point of contact in the two months since Mycroft first noticed him, waiting for his then-boyfriend outside the Merton gates. And yet here he was, chatting Mycroft up after going out of his way to join him at the small corner table he frequented in one of his favourite cafes.

He paid no attention to what the man was saying, only nodding occasionally while his brain frantically churned through the possibilities of why Bishop was there. Instead he focused on Bishop’s body language, his mobile features, his (lovely) smile, his expressive hands occasionally flying up from the table. It didn’t take Mycroft long to notice certain patterns: Bishop periodically leaning over the table towards him, then retreating back into his chair. Once Mycroft noticed the 3/4 tempo he couldn’t un-notice it. Over the course of the twenty minutes Bishop stayed with him, Mycroft calculated rolling averages in the man’s unconscious syncopation of advance and retreat. When he had sufficient data, he converted it into a live mental infographic. Then once he’d mastered that game, he added a third dimension to his mental modelling, adding leaning distance into the data stream.

Mycroft knew that wasn’t what he was supposed to be thinking about when in conversation with an attractive man who’d approached him out of the blue. He should be thinking about _why_ Peter Bishop was making fumbling efforts to flirt with him. Not that it was much of a deductive leap to the solution: this most likely was one of Rudy’s asinine tests. Mycroft couldn’t understand why the man bothered, especially now that Mycroft had agreed to his plan. And if he was going to test Mycroft, why had he settled on someone so obvious?

Then he wondered if the decision to throw Bishop at him to see if he stuck instead had been the idea of the shadowy figures in the government that hid behind his uncle, the people Mycroft was being prepared to impress (like a sacrificial lamb, he sometimes felt). Then he wondered why it was happening now. After all, he’d agreed (eventually) to his uncle’s plan to construct a plausible cover story for one of his more problematic idiosyncrasies. Was this test the response of The Powers That Be to his choice of Christina Martin? Were they suspicious that he might be, in fact, using her as a smoke screen?

Mycroft felt as if his sexuality was being dissected in another useless attempt by small-minded people to assess and characterize it for no purpose other than their own prurience. Or perhaps it was simply curiosity. It was as if those Powers thought themselves explorers, collecting data to map an unknown topography by triangulation, working from the known, tamed world out into uncharted wilderness. Once his mind generated the metaphor, Mycroft spun it out: his social and sexual life made up of data points, each with their own latitude, longitude and altitude, their own independent meaning, but each also adding context (and therefore richer meaning) to each other. Had choosing Christina as his unknowing co-conspirator been such an outlier to his history that doing so had raised some unanticipated red flag? The timing of Bishop’s approach certainly raised one in Mycroft’s mind, and it was inconceivable that Rudy thought it wouldn’t be noticed. Perhaps the obviousness of it was supposed to convey some sort of message in itself.

Regardless, Mycroft ensured his response communicated nothing but polite, flattered disinterest. Straight, but not narrow, was how Rudy characterised this target mindset. Mycroft could tell this surprised Bishop, but then it was unlikely he failed very often. Almost everyone else in the world was obsessed with conventional beauty and those who possessed it, and Bishop was beautiful. And in different circumstances, Mycroft might be tempted to consider what the man seemed to imply he was offering; but then, in different circumstances, a man like Peter Bishop wouldn’t give Mycroft the time of day, so there was no use wasting time on that train of thought.

In the end, none of it mattered, anyway. His implied rejection of Bishop—disguised as heterosexual obliviousness—had no apparent consequences and there were no repeated attempts over the next few days to “test” him. By the end of the week, Mycroft was glad to see that his status within the college had returned to its previous mutual arms-length wariness, and he was left to himself again. 

But The Plan continued to roll along like a rickety old train. He and Christina had a pleasant and entirely animus-free dinner (other than a short, sharp debate about Mozart) on the Friday. She made a few sorties toward asking about his family, which he fended off without (he thought) arousing any suspicions. Soon enough, he found himself able to turn his focus back to getting through the term and beginning to gird himself for the long Christmas break.

He'd had little time to worry about Sherlock since his brother had stormed out of Mycroft's room six weeks before. There'd been no frantic telephone calls from his parents, demanding (his mother) or wheedling (his father) Mycroft's help with whatever self-destructive nonsense Sherlock managed to get up to. The silence on that front would have been worrying if Mycroft had the time to do any worrying about it. But now that the situation with Rudy's plan had evolved from development to maintenance, and Christina was turning out to be a surprisingly undemanding “girlfriend”, Mycroft finally had the time to turn his mind in that direction again.

~ + ~

“Are you going home for Christmas?” Harry asked as he helped himself to more of Mycroft's trifle. 

Mycroft glared at him, though he really had no cause; he'd offered some to his friend, though he was surprised to see Harry take him up on the offer. “Two weeks at home and one in London.”

“Staying with your uncle?”

Mycroft nodded. “What about you?”

“Christmas in Wiltshire. It'll be a nightmare. Jem and Frank are coming and everyone's frantic to get their hands on the sprog.”

As Harry began to drone on about his older sister and her new baby, Mycroft tuned him out, only making periodic inarticulate noises of encouragement. He toyed with his coffee cup and mercilessly held down a belch. Dinner had been wonderful and he planned to ensure his budget stretched to another visit to this particular bistro in the near future. The heat and the scents of garlic, rosemary and the freesia in the centre of the table were sending him into a happy stupor. He barely resisted the urge to pat his stomach in contentment, like some suburban estate agent who had just ploughed through the daily special at his local pub.

Eventually Harry noticed Mycroft wasn't really paying attention and the torrent of words slowed to a trickle. “Sorry about that. I know family things bore you.”

“Not a problem.”

“You look pleased with yourself. Even more than usual,” Harry observed with a smile to draw out the sting a bit.

Mycroft smiled back. “Term ends tomorrow. My last paper's in, and generally speaking I'm free as a bird for the next two weeks. What's not to feel pleased about?”

“I imagine you'll be seeing a fair bit of Christina, then.”

Mycroft felt his sense of rightness with the world evaporate. Of course Christina had told Harry; he couldn't helping fuming a bit.

“No, she didn't tell me,” Harry added. “Suzanna saw you two together last Friday.”

While Harry didn't say anything else, Mycroft could tell his friend was feeling at least a little self-satisfied about Christina and Mycroft “seeing one another”, which Mycroft thought a bit presumptuous.

“Early days yet,” Mycroft replied in an offhand manner, knowing Harry had the sense to drop the subject once he realised Mycroft wasn't in the mood to talk about it.

“Ah. Best not jinx it, then.”

Harry gave him an inexcusable wink that Mycroft chose to overlook in view of their long friendship, but which eradicated any residual contentedness that might have remained from their excellent meal and evening's fellowship.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Harry asked, “How's your family? Sherlock run away from school lately?”

It was more a stumble than a segue, from a subject Mycroft didn't want to discuss to the only one he wanted to discuss even less. But as always, Harry was _trying_; Mycroft had to give him some credit for that, at least. “To the best of my knowledge, my parents are fine. Sherlock is—a teenager. And yes, he has bolted this term, but only the once that I know of, which is an improvement over the last few years.”

“You worry about him.”

“_Constantly_.” Mycroft noticed he was rubbing his forehead with a fingertip and stopped. “And I sometimes feel that'll never change.”

“Sisters are easier,” Harry offered and Mycroft choked back a laugh. _If only._

Mycroft had met Harry's sister Jemima once, and he would have had difficulty imagining a young woman less like his sister Eurus. Or at least what he imagined Eurus must be like now, after seven years of incarceration.

He never liked thinking about Eurus when he was with Harry; it reminded him of the time, five years before, when he'd almost told Harry about her. He had been at a terribly low ebb, almost overwhelmed by the guilt of lying to his parents about Eurus' “death”, not yet having adjusted to this addition to the secrets he carried for his family. In a moment of weakness he'd desperately wanted some scrap of sympathy for the burdens that had been dropping on him ever since Victor's disappearance. 

Even though good sense had won in the end and Mycroft had maintained his silence, looking back on that time was an uncomfortable reminder of how, if he wasn't vigilant, sentiment could creep in and hijack his mind when he least expected it. The memory still carried the sting of shame, of having once almost given in to the temptation of false comfort; if he had, he'd most likely have gained nothing, at the cost of Harry's friendship.

“Are you going to see Christina before you go home?” Harry asked again.

“Of course I am. Will you see her before you head off to Wiltshire?”

Harry grimaced. “I have a date tomorrow for another humiliation.”

Mycroft laughed. “Have you beaten her yet?”

“No.” Harry tried to sound upset, but his innate good nature made it a feeble effort. “But I was right; she is whipping me back into shape.” Harry patted his noticeably flatter stomach and Mycroft ignored the recognition his own was only getting bigger this term.

After arguing about whose turn it was to pay, they prepared to depart.

“Pass along my regards to Christina when you see her,” Mycroft said to Harry as they pulled on their coats. That elicited a perplexed look. “What?” Mycroft asked.

“Nothing. I just—nothing.”

Mycroft wasn't sure if he should pursue the point and then thought he should probably concede to his instincts and let it pass without further comment.

It wasn't until the next morning that the realisation struck: Mycroft had referred to Christina as if she were a colleague or a former classmate he hadn't seen for some years and had never liked much. It was an inexcusable slip; he reassured himself that at least it had been Harry he'd done it in front of, instead of someone with a more suspicious nature. He was going to have to be more careful to display the expected degree of affection for his “girlfriend”. Strangely, though, Christina herself didn't seem to expect that kind of display from him, and once he realised that Mycroft wondered why.

The question hovered in the back of his mind, colouring an otherwise enjoyable two days of post-term indolence before he saw her again. He tried, without success, to decide if the point was significant or not, or if he should be wasting processing time on it when the plan was going so well.

Half an hour into a conversation about the evolution of the Canadian fur trade and nineteenth century capital flows between Britain, America and China, Mycroft realised he was just going to have to ask her. Three attempts to turn the conversation towards more personal matters had been rebuffed and Mycroft's growing frustration must have showed on his face, because halfway through a digression on the role of the American whaling fleet on economic colonisation of the north Pacific coast, Christina stopped.

“I'm sorry if I'm boring you.”

“You aren't. I—I have a question. For you.”

She leant back away from the table, hands folded in her lap; she waited patiently for the promised question, and Mycroft wondered why he hadn't bothered to figure out beforehand what he was going to say.

“I was wondering. What your intentions were—your intentions, I mean—” _Damn it!_ He paused to collect his thoughts and calm himself. He cast aside the emotional detritus that was tripping him up. “I was wondering what your thoughts were on this—situation. You and me. And moving it forward.”

She blinked twice. “Um—”

“I meant physically,” he finally managed to blurt out.

Relief appeared on her face. “Oh. Sex.” Her tone was almost dismissive, as if it weren't a concern at all and Mycroft shoved down a flare of irritation. “I was starting to think you weren't interested. Which is okay. I understand—” she continued.

“No, no, that's not—”

“—I mean, you never—”

“—what I meant.”

“—seemed—okay. I'll shut up now and let you talk,” she ended with a smile, trying to halt their festival of cross-incomprehension.

Mycroft tried to reciprocate, to acknowledge being given the floor. He felt eyes other than hers on him and glanced behind; a young man at the next table immediately looked away and Mycroft felt cold dread. “Perhaps we should have this conversation somewhere more private.”

“Sure.”

To Mycroft's chagrin, “somewhere more private” ended up being Christina's room at Nuffield.

Mycroft had never been inside Nuffield before. It was a 20th century college and so had none of the true Oxford character about it. The benefit of modernity, however, was that the student rooms were larger than those at Merton and, he had to admit, more comfortable. 

Christina's room was not what he'd expected. He'd imagined clutter, a manifestation of her magpie personality. Instead, her room rivalled his for order: books in neat rows on shelves, computer and tidy stacks of notes on a small table under a window overlooking the courtyard, and what appeared to be her fencing gear stacked neatly in a corner. While she hung up their coats and proceeded to make tea, he wandered over to her bookcase. Economics texts. Mathematics texts. A pile of magazines that appeared to be about popular music. Nine novels by an author whose name he didn't recognise. A copy of Mann's _Buddenbrook_ that appeared to never have been opened. Ovid in Latin. Two books on fencing. Kantorowicz on medieval political philosophy. A book on medieval engineering that looked interesting. He was reading the back cover of the engineering text when he heard her sit on the bed behind him. He took a deep, quiet breath before turning to face her.

“The Kantorowicz is a bit of a surprise.” He replaced the book on the shelf. 

She grimaced. “I was supposed to read it for an undergrad course and never got around to it, so I've been dragging it around with me ever since.”

“Your albatross.” He ventured a small smile.

She smiled back. “Yes, the evolution of public institutions from the 12th to 16th centuries. Essential knowledge for an economist, don't you know. I had the insane idea the Tudors would make an interesting game modelling project.”

“No?”

She leant back on her hands and looked up at him. “No. I think all it taught me is that game theory is essentially an exercise in circular logic.”

“Oh.”

She paused, halfway to responding, then gave him one of her considering looks. “Did you really come here to discuss the validity of game theory?”

He paused as he realised that that option was more attractive than what he assumed would be happening that afternoon.

She patted the bed next to her. “I only bite upon request.”

Mycroft couldn't imagine what his expression communicated to her, as she immediately held up her hands. “Sorry. Joke. Bad joke, I admit.”

Mycroft reminded himself that he'd committed himself to doing this and that if he didn't get a move on, he was going to lose her and end up back at square one. He sat beside her and folded his hands in his lap, trying not to feel like a Victorian maiden on her wedding night. He could feel her watching him, which made him even more nervous. His heart in this throat, he forced himself to return her gaze. It was solemn, assessing, with little emotion that he could discern. The joking was done with, and he began to relax a little.

All things considered, the conversation Mycroft had been dreading for days turned out to be remarkably painless. He appreciated her pragmatism on the subject. But less than a minute in, Mycroft realised he was in over his head. She obviously had considerable experience, with a number of partners which, on one hand, would act in his favour, but on the other would likely raise her expectations far beyond his ability to satisfy. To his even greater relief, she seemed to possess no romantic delusions in regards to the matter, though she still seemed hesitant about accepting his declaration of interest in that regard. Not, as she said, that she wasn't amenable to the suggestion, but that she'd never imagined that he would be interested in her. He allowed himself the grace of ignoring the suspicions that declaration raised in the back of his mind.

In the end, Mycroft sensed that she was hesitating. Then she touched the edge of his jacket sleeve, almost as if she were trying to distract herself while she bucked up her courage. “Before I ask you this, I want to say there's absolutely no judgement involved in it, regardless of your answer.”

It was not the opening Mycroft had been expecting. Not that he really knew what, exactly, he should have expected. He cleared his throat. “What do you want to know?”

She glanced up at him from under her lashes and Mycroft couldn't tell if it was a bad attempt at flirtation or if she was unsure of herself. “Have you ever—Have you, um, ever been with a woman before?”

Mycroft tried to convince himself she hadn't put any particular emphasis on 'woman'. The success of the enterprise wouldn't be aided by him projecting his anxieties onto her and pre-supposing judgements that she had already denied outright. Her tone was surprisingly gentle, without a trace of pity or condescension, and with no sign of her usual half-ironic detachment. He decided to take the question at face value. “Ah, no—Not that—I—” He could feel himself blushing and hated his lack of control over his body. 

To his surprise, she didn't tease him about the blushes, if she even noticed them. Her fingers were stroking the inside edge of his sleeve; they were trembling against his wrist and he realised she was nervous as well. That didn't make him feel any better. “Okay. That's—we'll, um. Okay,” she mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

Mycroft became aware of how close she was. Her brown eyes had tiny green flecks and he could distinguish individual eyelashes. He'd never been so close to a woman before in his life, and was at a loss as to how to proceed from this point, though he needed to do _something_ or they were going to spend the entire afternoon staring at each other from six inches apart.

“Can I kiss you?”

He was startled by the question and the uncertainty in her voice. She was still expecting him to refuse. Mycroft tried to force sound out of his mouth, but his throat seemed to be closed off tight as a Pharaoh's tomb, so he nodded.

Slowly, as if she were trying to not startle a wild animal, she raised her right hand to his face and softly brushed her fingertips across his cheekbone, then slid her fingers into his hair to cup the back of his head. To his relief, she had shifted her gaze from his eyes to what her hand was doing. Her fingers in his hair felt wonderful and frightening and while he briefly closed his eyes to focus on the sensation, he felt her breath across his lips the moment before she kissed him.

It was just a gentle touch, the briefest whisper of skin on skin but it caused a ripple of electricity that radiated out from his mouth to his fingertips. He opened his eyes and saw her face still just in front of his as she watched for his reaction. She must have seen some sort of permission as she pressed her lips to his again, firmer, sliding her lips across his. It felt like a kick to the base of the spine, a flush across the skin of his entire body, and an epiphany all in an instant. She spoke a tiny, indescribable puff of sound into his mouth that the primitive lizard core of his brain interpreted as pleasure, which was good because all his higher reasoning was shot to hell and the tension in his chest tightened a notch at the sensation of free-fall that overcame him. 

As she began to pull away, his hands, acting on no instruction from his reason, grasped her shoulders and held her close. He began to actively return her kisses, fumbling a little and not caring as she began to stroke the base of his skull, her strong fingers teasing the edge of his hairline. She made that tiny noise again and he smiled into the kiss.

He didn't want it to stop, but had no idea how to move forward. Then he mentally shrugged and gifted himself with abandonment to the strange new sensations thrumming through his body that he had no names for. And he didn't care, so long as she didn't stop. 

His shoulder ached from the strange angle of their bodies, his back twisted and strained. But he leant further into the kiss and slid a hand around her back to pull her closer. The kiss became firmer, quicker. They were panting into each other's mouths as the kiss deepened and he resisted the urge to fall back on the bed because he knew that if that happened, there was no stopping and the tiny portion of his brain that was still functioning knew that he had to maintain some modicum of control. 

The angle of their bodies meant she was pressing a breast against the side of his arm and he could feel his body reacting. He didn't know whether he was glad about that or not; he didn't think she'd be offended by him getting an erection, but he wasn't prepared to deal with anything, well, _sub-equatorial_. To his relief, she pulled away slightly and leant her forehead on his shoulder. Her breath on his neck wasn't helping in his efforts to will away his erection, which he knew she'd see as soon as she pulled away from him.

It took her a minute or so to collect herself and she placed a brief kiss to the side of his throat. Startled, he pressed a hand to where she'd kissed him as she rubbed her cheek against his like a big, affectionate cat.

She leant in again for another quick kiss, then sat back, stretching her shoulders.

Unexpectedly, she didn't appear disgusted or in any way displeased with proceedings: her flushed smile spoke the opposite, in fact. He was surprised to find himself relieved by this.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why?” He tried not to sound defensive.

She fell back onto the bed; staring up at the ceiling, she retained contact by stroking her hand up his forearm, inside the sleeve of his jacket. “You look a bit discombobulated.”

“I'm fine.”

“You use that word a lot.”

“It accurately describes my mental and emotional state most of the time.”

She chuckled, then gently tugged the edge of his sleeve. “You're wearing an awful lot of clothes.” Mycroft froze for a moment, then she continued, suddenly serious. “That's fine, if you're more comfortable that way.”

“I didn't want to—” He stood and removed his jacket, feeling like a fool or a prude, or both. “It is a little warm.”

“It's fine, really—”

“You use that word a lot, 'fine'.”

Mycroft could tell instantly that the attempted joke fell flat. So it was with a certain trepidation that he rejoined her on the bed. He sat, half perched on the edge, wondering what to do next and avoiding her eye. The room was small and the sounds of people walking down the corridor, chatting, seemed within touching distance; Mycroft felt horribly exposed, compelled to silence. Fighting back a rising sense of failure, he turned to see her watching him have his little internal battle. The former mirth on her face was gone, replaced by something close to solemnity.

“I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable,” she said as she folded her hands across her stomach.

He needed to swallow and clear his throat before he could answer. “You haven't.” It took more effort than he liked to not whisper, which would feel like cowardice.

She looked as though she were going to argue the point, and Mycroft was relieved she chose not to. For some reason, he was starting to feel as though the whole thing was getting beyond him. While they'd done almost nothing—and he'd had much more intense sexual encounters before with hardly a qualm—he was becoming upset, mostly with himself, and he had no idea why.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” he muttered as he flopped back onto the bed next to her and joined in staring at the ceiling.

They were both silent for a minute or so, and Mycroft felt himself begin to calm a little. Then the shame began; shame for allowing himself to become emotional, to lose sight of the game and why he was there. He turned to Christina; her eyes were closed and, slightly miffed, he wondered if she'd fallen asleep.

“I'm not sleeping,” she muttered. She cocked open her right eye and stared back without moving. “You have a very penetrating gaze.” She brushed a fingertip around the orbit of his eye socket and he forced himself to not flinch. “Extraordinary eyes. So blue.”

Embarrassed, Mycroft almost protested. He shrugged instead. 

Christina rolled onto her side to face him and tucked her hands between her cheek and the duvet. “You don't like compliments.”

“I can hardly take credit for the colour of my eyes.”

“True.” She watched him for another second or two, then rolled onto her back again. 

Mycroft knew the ball was firmly in his court. If they were going to progress beyond laying next to each other and staring at the ceiling, he was going to have to make the next move, yet there he lay, like a missish virgin.

He rolled onto his side to face Christina; her eyes were closed again, but as he watched, the corners of her mouth twisted slightly into the momentary hint of a smile. He knew he should kiss her. Feeling like an oaf, he leant over her and just before his lips met hers, he felt her hand slide around his waist and under his waistcoat. He gasped; her eyes slid open, revealing a wicked glint.

“Very good,” she whispered as she raised her head and kissed him.

It was less shocking and significantly less comfortable than before, but within a minute he felt his arousal returning, and this time he cared not at all, transfixed by the sensation of skin under his hand as it explored under the edge of her shirt. She laughed and twisted out of his arms.

“Sorry. Ticklish.” She grasped his wrist and pulled it around her so that his hand rested in the dip of her lumbar. Her other hand was loosely clasped around the back of his neck.

“I'm not crushing you?” he asked. “I know I'm—”

“No, it's fine. It's—great. I like this. Having you here like this,” she replied.

He was blushing again, he knew, but he suspected she enjoyed seeing the effect she had on him. “All right.”

The next hour disappeared without a trace. Eventually his embarrassment that she could tell he was aroused dissipated and he allowed himself to enjoy the experience on a purely physical level. As Christina showed no dissatisfaction with his performance, he allowed himself to stop worrying about that, as well.

To his relief, they were still both entirely dressed (if more than a little tousled), when Christina decided that enough was enough and gently extricated herself from the tangle they'd made of themselves. He was pleased that she looked as flustered as he felt, and the warmth of her expression as she looked at him spoke of a successful endeavour on his part.

She stood and walked over to the window, picking up a cigarette pack and lighter. She held them up to him. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. I understand it's traditional.”

She gave a small chuckle. “Want one?”

“God, yes.”

Her smile widened and she tossed him the pack and lighter after she'd lit her own cigarette. She opened the window and perched on the ledge near her desk, directing the smoke outside. He joined her by the window and they smoked in companionable silence as the noise of the college filtered up from the courtyard and through the walls: students returning for dinner, doors opening and closing, friends and classmates talking in the corridor. The lives of others going on around them, intruding on their quiet.

Mycroft held his cigarette out and she gave him a glass for his ash. “You're allowed to smoke in here?”

“No.” She laughed. “If I get sent down, I'm taking you with me.”

In the moment it took him to realise she was joking his dismay must have shown on his face, for she laughed again. “My god, I'm going to have to be careful with you.”

“What does that mean?”

She paused, suddenly serious. “Nothing, really,” she replied as she turned to wave smoke out the window. Mycroft realised she'd come close to revealing something she hadn't wanted to, but he couldn't begin to guess what.

Two hours later, Mycroft sat in his room, trying to make sense of what had happened. A part of his mind wondered why he was sitting in the growing darkness of his room, rather than still with Christina. Being where he was felt right, staring out into the darkening quad while his brain sifted through all the new data he'd acquired.

By the time it was fully dark outside he'd noticed his right hand idly clicking his desk lamp on and off repeatedly and he wondered how long that had been going on. He forced himself to stop. The immobility of his body failed to calm his mind's fractured scrambling.

He was—perturbed.

Why was he perturbed?

Nothing had happened that day, or the previous days to justify perturbation.

His brain felt like a trainee sheepdog: as soon as he got his thoughts in order, one of them escaped into the underbrush and when he left the rest to retrieve it, the others took the opportunity to run in fifty different directions.

He sighed, realising he was going to have to resort to juvenile methodologies. He turned on the desk lamp and rustled up a pen and notebook.

Under “Pro” he wrote: _Acquired possibly adequate subject for R's plan_

Under “Con” he wrote: _C seems to expect a sexual relationship_

Giving the last item more thought, he scratched it out. Sex in this context was likely going to be a wash: a necessary distraction. He ignored the low residual arousal that had been simmering through him since he'd left Christina. A necessary and, he reluctantly admitted, not entirely unpleasant distraction.

He idled away the next half an hour transcribing his thoughts, occasionally moving items between columns. In the end, he didn't feel much better about his situation, but at least his thoughts were in some sort of order. He reasoned that was worth something, even if he didn't yet know what to do with them.

About two-thirds of the way through the process he grudgingly admitted the likely cause for his mind behaving like a rickety tombola: his unresolved arousal. On one hand he'd been ignoring it, as was his habit. On the other, he wondered why. It was hardly something to be ashamed of. After all, he and Christina had been intimate for the first time and he'd acquitted himself reasonably well. Very well, considering his lack of experience with women. 

Looking back on it in that light, he felt as though he'd passed a test and he supposed any sense of satisfaction was warranted. The next test would be easier for the knowledge he could allow himself to succeed at this odd enterprise.

He glanced down to his lap. His internal body temperature rose 0.75 degrees as he wondered if he should take care of himself now or wait until after dinner.

“Oh, why not,” he muttered as he headed for his bed, loosening his tie. 

~ + ~


	4. Everyone would be receiving a visit to Casualty for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft goes home for Christmas and learns the hard way that the adage about eavesdroppers is spot on.

The journey down to Sussex on Saturday morning was everything Mycroft expected: slow, cramped, tedious, noisy, _dreadful_. Despite his best efforts, he wasn't able to avoid all the feral, sticky-fingered monstrosities rampaging through the corridors. The parents were hardly better, as most of them were already drunk at 10:30 am. For years, he'd known that the very first purchase he would make with his very first pay packet out in the real world would be a car. The thought that this would be the last such trip home for Christmas was little consolation for the parlous state of his eardrums before they'd even pulled into Clapham Junction.

As always, the only relief available was to sink into his own mind. Unfortunately what awaited him there was Rudy, Christina, and the tedious plan of his uncle's that bound the three of them together. 

Regardless that his uncle had been (metaphorically speaking) riding him like a monkey on the back of a camel, all told, Mycroft was rather proud of the progress he's made in the last month in this endeavour. He'd both identified and acquired a reasonably suitable target candidate, and considerable progress had been made in co-opting her into the scheme despite Mycroft having received no assistance whatsoever from his uncle. Even though Mycroft was playing a game he'd never played before, against an opponent with much greater experience, he still had been able to acquit himself well. He thought he was within his rights to feel satisfied with his performance so far, regardless of Rudy's opinion of his choice.

Beyond the satisfaction of a scheme well started, Mycroft had to admit—if he were being scrupulously honest with himself—that on a purely physical level he'd rather enjoyed the two bouts of semi-dressed intimate wresting he'd engaged in with Christina. While she was far from his equal on an intellectual level, she was turning out to be a more than satisfactory partner for purely physical pursuits.

The train to Amberley pootled along, stopping every two miles (or so it seemed) on its slow progress south-west. As they approached the rolling hills of the South Downs, Mycroft couldn't hold at bay any longer his dismay at the prospect of two weeks with his family. It was going to be tense, fractious, and draining, and Mycroft knew he'd leave more exhausted at the end of it than he was now. 

To distract himself, he recalled Sherlock's brief, melodramatic display in his rooms in October. The most surprising aspect of that event was that he hadn't been called on the carpet by his mother, demanding a debrief on Sherlock's behaviour, motives, and general state of mind, with a side dish of disdain for Mycroft's inadequate response. Perhaps Sherlock had been right, though, and he had managed to slip away from school without anyone noticing. Sherlock not attending classes was hardly noteworthy anymore; as long as no one saw him leave or return, it was likely that other than Mycroft and Rudy, no one was the wiser. On one hand, it was perversely gratifying to see the development of Sherlock's skills; on the other, it was disturbing to see just how uninterested he was in learning anything other than the construction of toxic, explosive or otherwise deadly substances, shirking his responsibilities, and the violin. While the former might—in the right circumstances—be guided into a productive career, the other two were not.

Mycroft knew he'd made a mistake by not pursuing the matter further in October. Sherlock obviously needed more oversight, and much less of other people making excuses, than his parents were willing to commit to, and as usual the burden was going to fall onto his own shoulders. So it annoyed him to realise how much Rudy's plan had forced him to abandon that responsibility over the last two months—another annoyance to lay at the door of the small-minded, unseen assessors who directed his life from behind the scenes.

While Mycroft didn’t believe in nonsense like “premonitions”, he did feel a sense of foreboding as the train approached Amberley. With the experience of eight years’ travelling to and from school and uni, his eyes slid open just as the train entered the village and began to slow. As he expected, he saw his father’s grey Volvo in the nearby car park, and the sight elicited a slight hitch in his chest that he dismissed. Dragging his suitcase down from the overhead rack, Mycroft took a deep breath to calm himself and ignored the concerned look from the elderly woman sitting nearby. It would be _fine_, he told himself. He could survive one more family Christmas; this would be the last one he'd have to endure for some time (so he'd promised himself) and if he kept only one promise to himself over the next year that would be it. 

To Mycroft's relief, his mother wasn't waiting with his father in the car. That most likely meant Sherlock was already home from Marlborough. After the usual fumbling greetings and absent-minded questions from his father to ensure he hadn't left anything on the train, Mycroft settled into the car. In a minute they were barrelling down the narrow country lanes between the village and the family cottage. As usual, Mycroft kept an eagle eye out as his father charged between the high hedgerows that embraced the old, narrow road. Driving with his father had always seemed to Mycroft as if he were rolling dice with his future at stake. And to top it all off, his father's usual off-key humming of show tunes was replaced by the urge to chat, probably to fill in the gap left by the absence of his wife's usual inquisition whenever one of their children arrived home from school.

“How was the journey?”

“Noisy.”

“Ah, Christmas travel; people scurrying about, parcels on the luggage racks—”

“Children shrieking in the corridors and vomiting on the seats.” Mycroft knew he had to interrupt the golden-hued 1960s nostalgia before his father got into full flow. 

His father only chuckled at the interruption and accelerated; Mycroft wondered if his father was trying to kill them in order to avoid the conversation, or Christmas in general. Before he could decide which, the Volvo was rumbling up the gravel drive to the back of the cottage and Mycroft saw his mother's face appear for a moment in the window of the rear lounge.

His heart sank. He was home. 

There was a flurry of activity as his mother descended upon them, wind whipping her scarves around her head like Medusa’s snakes, his father wrestling him for dominance over the luggage, and Sherlock smirking from the doorway as Mycroft suppressed the urge to shout at everyone to just leave him alone for five seconds until he could get in the bloody door.

After liberating his bag from his father, Mycroft headed straight for his room, where he collapsed onto his bed face-down and groaned.

“You've gained weight,” he heard from the doorway behind him.

_Fuck off, Sherlock_, he pointedly did not reply, in service of some probably outdated and non-applicable in the case of Holmeses notion of the holiday spirit. He turned his head to the side so that he could snipe back at his brother without inhaling duvet. “Lost half a stone, actually, since you—saw me last,” Mycroft nimbly amended when he heard his mother's footsteps on the stairs. “One day you might be remotely as good at observation as you think you are.” He turned to give his brother a full-on scowl and noted the over-long curls hanging in his eyes. “Get a haircut. Maybe then you'll be able to see what's right in front of you.”

When Sherlock didn't answer or storm out, Mycroft rolled over and subjected his brother to closer inspection. “What is it?”

Sherlock watched their mother bustle in the doorway with a stack of clean towels. She glanced between them as she placed them on Mycroft's bureau, then left without saying anything, an event of such rarity that the brothers shared a “What the hell?” look, which broke the rising tension.

“What've you been working on lately?” Mycroft asked, knowing full well there was no point asking his brother about any of his classes.

“Stop pretending you care,” Sherlock muttered as he left, slamming the door to his room.

Mycroft flopped onto his back and flung an arm over his eyes. “Christ almighty,” he muttered at the prospect of two weeks of Sherlock flouncing about over the “Powers case” and his supposed Brighton serial killer that no one else in the world had noticed.

After dawdling over his unpacking for twenty minutes, Mycroft descended into the front lounge. His mother was muttering over pastry in the kitchen, and his father was nowhere to be seen, which usually meant he was hiding in his garden shed. Sherlock was sprawled along one of the sofas, either reading a book about the Crippen case or using a book about the Crippen case to hide something even more gruesome.

“That's a productive use of your time,” Mycroft muttered as he opened the newspaper he hadn't had the heart to try to read on the train. Without a word, Sherlock leapt off the sofa and stomped back up the stairs.

“What did you say to him, Mike?” his father asked from the doorway, where he juggled an armful of firewood.

“Nothing,” he groused back. “It's not my fault he's a moody git.”

His father chuckled. “You were hardly better at that age.”

_Yes I bloody well was_. Mycroft just shook his newspaper out and held it up to hide the sight of his father playing with the fire in the grate. _And if I was moody, at least I had reason to be_.

An hour later, at his mother's request to fetch Sherlock for dinner, Mycroft stood outside the closed door to his brother's bedroom. There was an indistinct rustling coming from within and Mycroft firmly resisted the urge to barge in and scar his brother for life by catching him masturbating. The shock would do the little bastard good, Mycroft knew, but Sherlock would find ways to make the next two weeks even more miserable if he did. So Mycroft knocked and the distinctive rustling stopped immediately.

“What?” Sherlock demanded, and Mycroft silently commended his brother's vocal control. Either that or he was up to something else entirely, as Sherlock sounded only ordinarily annoyed.

“Dinner.”

“Fucking hell,” Sherlock muttered. Grinning, Mycroft began to turn the doorknob, though he had no intention of entering the fetid cave Sherlock made of his room within an hour of returning home from school. “Get out!”

Mycroft made sure Sherlock was able to hear his chuckle as he walked away.

Arriving in the kitchen, Mycroft watched his father lay the table; his parents were in the middle of a conversation about the Hendersons, former neighbours who had recently emigrated to America. As he sat, his mother turned to him from the sink. 

“Where's Sherlock?”

_Wanking_. “In his room.”

“Did you—”

“Yes.”

She only scowled at him in reply. “Tom, could you—”

“Of course.” 

As he watched his father drop everything and jump to his wife's command, Mycroft wondered if his father had always been spineless, or if twenty-five years of marriage to his mother had worn him down to the husk of a man he'd become.

“Oh, there you are,” his father added as Sherlock slouched into the room and poured himself into the chair farthest from Mycroft, his expression a mixture of horribly put-upon, dismissiveness, and something else Mycroft didn't identify for a few seconds. It was shame, he realised, which he thought odd. Sherlock was famously the most shameless person to bestride the earth.

As they all settled in for dinner, Mycroft wondered when the inquisition would begin. Would his mother weigh in immediately, or would she wait until she'd served pudding? In the end, Sherlock threw a spanner into the expected conversation.

“Mike's got a girlfriend,” he intoned ten seconds into the meal.

“What?” both their parents replied in perfect unison and almost identical incredulity.

“Shut up, Sherlock.” Mycroft turned to his parents. “I do not have a 'girlfriend'.”

“Of course you don't, dear,” his mother replied. “You don't like girls. Tom, can you pass the beans, please?”

For about the eighteen thousandth time, Mycroft bit his tongue on the matter of his mother's long-standing, unwavering belief in his homosexuality. For a split second he toyed with the idea of telling them about Christina, with full disclosure that it had been his mother's despised older brother's idea. And that Mycroft was rather enjoying himself. _That_ could quite possibly cause his mother's head to explode, which if nothing else would make this Christmas both memorable and blessedly short. Unfortunately, it would mean that Mycroft and his father would have to attempt to cook, with the result that everyone would be receiving a visit to Casualty for Christmas, so he dismissed the idea for practicalities if nothing else. By the time he was again paying attention to the flow of conversation around him, the moment had passed anyway. Perhaps he'd wait until the middle of Christmas dinner itself to let fly. If nothing else, it would make a change from Sherlock instigating the usual family mid-meal meltdown. Mycroft thought he was due a turn.

Sherlock was smirking at him as he spread his food around his plate in an effort to hide how little of it he'd actually eaten. “What's her name?”

“Whose? The fictitious girlfriend you've conjured out of your fevered brain, the same as your Brighton serial killer?” Mycroft snapped back as he viciously stabbed a Brussels sprout, then shoved it in his mouth before he said any more.

“How's your tutor?” his father asked, making one of his usually ineffectual attempts to keep everything running smoothly between his sons.

“Sherlock, for heaven's sake eat. I didn't spend all day in this kitchen for you to use my food as décor,” their mother snapped, putting a final full stop on the “girlfriend” conversation.

Sherlock just slid further down into his chair, pale and even more miserable looking than usual. 

“And stop fidgeting,” their mother added, pinning her younger son to his place with her well-honed laser beam glare.

“I'll eat if Mycroft tells us about his girlfriend,” Sherlock muttered with a breathy malevolence that made Mycroft want to pin one of his brother's hands to the table with a fork.

“Don't be ridiculous. Mike isn't interested in girls. And that is _just fine_, dear.”

Mycroft couldn't help wincing.

“Except for the AIDS,” his father added, making one of his more memorable conversational contributions. Mycroft repressed the urge to pound his head on the table until he achieved the bliss of unconsciousness.

Sherlock snickered at Mycroft's growing mortification, but Mycroft shut him up with, “How's the progress on the Powers case? Found your serial killer yet?”

Both parental heads swivelled as one from Mycroft to Sherlock, turning perfectly matched expressions of parental hurt and disappointment to their younger son.

Mycroft had wanted to save that particular tidbit for later; it seemed profligate to expend one of his more valuable pieces of ordinance on the very first day. But Sherlock needed to be diverted from the Christina pathway at all costs, even if telling their parents about her would likely have a snowball's chance in hell of curing his mother's beliefs. He'd often suspected that catching Mycroft _en flagrante_ with a woman wouldn't even make a dent in his mother's adamantine delusions on the matter. After all, if she were forced to admit her error, she'd have to give up her hard-won status in the local WI as the member with the greatest burden to carry with (false) dignity: the disgrace of a gay son, lovingly forgiven his sins in the true spirit of Christian charity.

The remainder of the meal was held in grim silence as they all ploughed through until the bitter end. Mycroft hadn't even bothered replying to his father's fumbling efforts to keep the peace. 

A heavy funk had descended over the house by the time the elder Holmeses had retired for the night. Sherlock had, of course, bolted for his room the moment he'd been excused from the table. Mycroft remained in the back lounge, curled up on the oldest, squashiest sofa and stared into the dying fire and wondered how in hell he was going to survive the next thirteen days. He allowed his mind to stray to the places it often did when he was at home, despite the full knowledge doing so would gain him nothing but heartache.

Over the years, Mycroft had often wondered if his family would be more or less dysfunctional if Eurus hadn't had to be taken away. The effect on Sherlock had been literally incalculable. And while his mother had complied with the bizarre idea of healing her middle child by pretending her youngest had never existed—and the material and emotional sacrifices the family had made for those lies—Mycroft knew his mother had never really been convinced it was the right idea.

The evidence was all around him. The room held little touches that Mycroft knew his mother kept to remind her of Eurus, the most macabre of which—the music box she'd given Eurus for her sixth birthday—Mycroft expected to trigger the recovery of Sherlock's memories every time it was opened.

Of the many things Mycroft didn't understand about his mother, her seeming desire to sabotage the plan agreed upon to protect her child was the greatest mystery. He suspected that now Eurus was “dead” his mother was unconsciously hoping to “give birth” to her again and return the mad child she'd adored to her place in the family. Mycroft knew that the longer the secrets remained, the worse it would be for all of them when they were revealed. As he knew they would; all secrets were eventually, even if not until the death of their guardians.

Mycroft didn't want to think what the damage would be to Sherlock. Not just the revelation that everyone in his family had participated in the construction and maintenance of an entire edifice of lies that had necessitated losing the home he'd loved, but worst of all that his sister had most likely murdered his best friend. Every time he thought of what might happen when Sherlock found out, Mycroft felt forebodings's suffocating embrace. The logic behind Rudy's plan to protect Sherlock never seemed able to fully counterbalance the premonition of what would descend upon them all once the truth came out.

~ + ~

After a horrible night comprised mostly of tossing and turning interspersed with the usual nightmares that visited him whenever he attempted to sleep under his parents' roof, Mycroft was in a daze for most of the next morning. At one point he was startled into wakefulness to find himself staring into the guest bedroom at the back of the cottage. It was if he was seeing it for the first time; he'd never noticed before that it was decorated like a little girl's room, and the realisation sent a shiver up his spine. The white lace curtains, pink rose wallpaper and single bed tucked into the corner as if to leave as large a play area as possible in the middle of the room curdled his stomach into a ball of roiling anger at his mother's inexcusable selfishness. 

Overcome by a wave of lightheadedness, he plopped himself down onto the blanket chest in the corner. Elbows propped on his knees, he held his head in his hands while he waited for the world to stop spinning around him. 

“Drunk already? It's a bit early, even for a greedy pig like you.”

Mycroft ignored his brother until he felt a bony finger jabbing him in the back of the neck. With a speed that probably surprised them both, he grabbed Sherlock's wrist before he could pull his hand away and yanked his brother over so that they were nose to nose. Mycroft ignored the blown-pupil shock on his little brother's face as he snarled, “Today is not the day, Sherlock. I have no qualms about telling Mummy about your little jaunt to Oxford. So if you really want to spend the next three years seeing nothing but the inside of the local comprehensive and this house, keep it up.”

Despite his wiry strength, Sherlock couldn't wrench his hand away. “You're an idiot if you think she'll take your word over mine. Rudy won't come to your rescue this time,” Sherlock eventually declared once he realised he couldn't escape.

“How much are you willing to bet? Feeling adventurous today? Perhaps I should just call her—”

That instantly stilled Sherlock and the sudden fear on his face would have shamed Mycroft on a better day. Then Sherlock recovered, pulling back to the end of his tether and staring down his nose, haughty beyond his fourteen years. “You're bluffing.”

“Feeling lucky, are we?”

“What do you want?” Sherlock had progressed to full-on pouting, which for him was rolling over and baring his belly. Mycroft knew it as his brother's opening salvo of negotiations.

“You drop this nonsense about me having a girlfriend.”

“But you do.” Sherlock was genuinely perplexed. “Why lie about it? Mummy—”

“Isn't fond of her mistakes being thrown in her face. I can put up with the delusions better than the inquisitions about my personal life that would ensue.”

“That's—”

“A lie, yes. A useful one.”

“I was going to say stupid, but— You're such a hypocrite.” Sherlock was smirking now, but Mycroft was glad to see it was the friendliest of his brother's arsenal of smirks. Mycroft let loose his hand and instead of making a break for his room, Sherlock folded himself down to the floor.

Having Sherlock sitting at his feet, the two of them tucked up alone in a hidden corner of the house, brought on a sharp pang of nostalgia and Mycroft wondered how long it had been since the two of them had spent time together in any accord. Years, he thought.

“Our mother has appalling taste,” Sherlock muttered a minute later.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock pointed at the wallpaper. “No wonder no one visits. Who'd want to sleep in this pink monstrosity? It'd give anyone nightmares.”

“I doubt it's the décor that keeps people away.”

“Do you ever wonder if she wanted one of us to be a girl?”

Mycroft froze, tongue-tied while his mind spun, spun, spun, like a car stuck in a bog, unable to get any traction. _Do you ever wonder if she wanted_ me _to be a girl?_ is what Mycroft heard behind his brother's question.

Sherlock looked up at him and Mycroft forced his face into a rigid blandness. “What?” Sherlock asked, obviously having one of his more observant days.

“I don't believe Mummy would have the first clue how to raise a girl.” Mycroft paused, and ordered in his mind the questions he would try to put to Sherlock in his role as guardian of Rudy's lies. All he could hope was that he got through some of them before Sherlock became frustrated or bored and stormed off. Mycroft didn't want to throw away the rare amity of the moment, but he didn't know when he'd get another chance and Rudy would expect him to report when he went up to London in the New Year. 

“She wouldn't want the competition for Father's attention,” Sherlock eventually replied, drawing his knees up under his chin and wrapping his arms around his legs, staring off across the room as if it were a fireplace. The sight was so powerfully evocative of Sherlock as a child that Mycroft held his tongue for a moment so that he could just enjoy the sight.

“I hate this house,” slipped out of Mycroft's mouth with little participation from his brain. He wasn't surprised that Sherlock was startled by the honesty of the sentiment. 

“Why?” Sherlock's mind had turned to suspicion.

“I miss Musgrave.”

“Oh.” Sherlock returned to staring into space. “Me too.”

Mycroft rarely mentioned their former home, and never in front of his parents. The name was evocative on so many levels: not just the house itself, not just the horror of Victor's disappearance and the consequent fall-out, but the loss of the family's history, it's sense of who they were. They'd once been the most recent in a centuries-long line of Holmeses of Musgrave; now who were they? Their father had taken the loss of his family's home particularly hard, viewing it as a personal failure. Their mother never spoke of their former life at all, in his hearing, anyway. Sherlock seemed to largely ignore everything that had happened before their move from Wareham to Amberley, though Mycroft had wondered if that was due to disinterest or the prodigious holes in his memory.

“I miss the wood,” Mycroft added after a minute and realised he spoke the truth; his words were not just a ploy to test the soundness of his brother's mental barricades. He glanced down to gauge Sherlock's reaction, but saw no sign of agitation or discomfort. He appeared just to be wandering his own remaining memories of their lost childhood home.

“What do you miss?” Mycroft prompted when Sherlock remained silent. He only shrugged and Mycroft wondered if it were the lacunae in his memories that kept him from answering or an unwillingness to share a confidence, thinking Mycroft would consider it a weakness that could be be exploited.

“I'll bet you don't miss the village school.”

Sherlock snorted. “God, she was a bitch, wasn't she?”

“I've never understood why people who hate children become primary school teachers. Of course, it might have been becoming a primary school teacher that made Mrs Russell hate children so much.”

“She _adored_ you.” Sherlock put on a simpering, quavering female voice. “'Why can't you be like your brother, Sherlock?' Stupid cow.”

“I never filled her garden pond with Portland cement.”

“She was horrible. She deserved it.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I can think of few people on earth I'd trust less than you to decide what other people 'deserve', little brother.”

“Oh, fuck off, Mikey,” Sherlock spat back with surprisingly little venom.

“Language, William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” their father called up the stairs.

“If the best you can come up with is vulgarity then you've already admitted defeat.” Mycroft stood, glad to be able to check off his one obligation and be able to report to Rudy that Sherlock's mental levees were holding up. “And I have better things to do with my time than be sworn at by a petulant child.”

“And I have better things to do with my time than be patronised by a fat, lazy git.” Sherlock made a vague wave at him and Mycroft smiled as he sauntered away.

~ + ~

_I miss Musgrave._

That night, after everyone else had retired and Mycroft was alone in the kitchen making himself cocoa, his words from that morning returned and he couldn't shake them. As a general rule he tried to not dwell on the past; no amount of maundering over it would bring it back or fix it. But Musgrave— He hadn't known what the house had meant to him until it was gone. And it wasn't just the house, but their former life and everything it represented.

_I miss Musgrave._

_I miss the deep oak wood and all the delightful, ever-changing life within it._

_I miss telling Sherlock off for insisting on tagging along when I couldn't bear the sight of him._

_I miss freedom._

_I miss parents who trust me._

_I miss my little sister._

Mycroft paused, spoon hovering over his cup. He missed Eurus. That realisation shocked him. Once it had made its presence known, the feeling wouldn't be dismissed by application of either logic or pragmatism. Seven years of forcing himself to think of her as an abstraction fell away as he suddenly _ached_ at the loss of her in a way he hadn't allowed himself before.

The emptiness was unfamiliar and unnerving, though his instinctive response was to berate himself for melodrama. Mycroft stood in the narrow shaft from the task lighting above the Aga and stared at the backs of his hands as they pressed hard on the counter. Realising he missed his mad, probably murderous sister was one thing; what was he supposed to do about it? The emotion itself had no operative value; why was it making its presence known now? Were his mounting concerns about Sherlock clearing the way for this resurgent sentiment?

Focusing on a task, a problem to be solved, calmed him and made it possible to banish the disorientating sense of disconnect from his usual certainties. It took him a few minutes to identify a list of critical factors to analyse; once he had that, his usual equilibrium returned and he felt more himself.

Over the last two years, Mycroft had gleaned enough information from the snippets he'd pried out of his uncle to know that Eurus was likely incurable. She seemed to possess no empathy, no sense of emotions, no thought of consequences; married to her extraordinary intelligence and an insatiable desire to dissect the world around her into its component parts to see how it all worked so that she could master it, she was a danger to everyone who came into contact with her. She was a problem without a solution, much as it pained Mycroft to admit such a thing might exist. And as disheartening as it was to admit it, Rudy's approach did seem to be the best for everyone.

But recognising the reality of the situation did little to address his own sadness. There would always be a hole in his life in the shape of a catastrophically brilliant little girl, and there was nothing within his powers to change that.

~ + ~

“What did you say to Sherlock?”

Mycroft's head snapped up from his book to meet his mother's glare. “I haven't— What exactly do you mean?”

“He's moping. He wasn't moping before you arrived.”

_Brilliant deduction, Mummy. Because I have exactly that much power over Sherlock. He's probably wanking all day, like any other fourteen year-old boy._ Mycroft could tell his mother read that thought, with the preternatural maternal instinct that only seemed to function when she was grilling him. “I'd argue Sherlock's not so much moping as behaving exactly like a perfectly ordinary teenager.”

“You never moped, Mike,” his father interjected as he sprawled along the other sofa with a relieved sigh and settled in with the _Times_ crossword. “But you were never ordinary, were you?” His father gave him a surreptitious wink that Mycroft knew was supposed to make him feel better—as if someone was on his side, even if only covertly. But it didn't. It never did.

“What were the two of you doing whispering upstairs yesterday morning?” his mother demanded.

Mycroft had no idea where this was going, other than perhaps a sojourn into his mother's periodic flirtations with paranoia. He knew the collapsing crunch of his face into a scowl wouldn't help matters, but he didn't bother forcing himself to stop. In the background behind his mother, his father was frowning, but silent; as usual, he was letting his wife have her way.

“What were you talking about?” his mother persisted, hovering over him.

“Nothing of any consequence.” Mycroft knew that wouldn't satisfy her, but he needed a moment to find a plausible lie. Telling her the truth was simply not an option.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

To Mycroft's near-relief, she seemed to be backing down a bit; it was obvious she was truly concerned about something. He put on an expression redolent of a (fake) internal conflict, as if she were demanding he divulge a confidence.

“He's just—it's a phase, Mummy. School. He implied something about a girl.” Sherlock would kill him (well, he'd _try_) if he found out this was the lie Mycroft had come up with. He shrugged. “Teenaged hormones.”

“See, I told you it was nothing,” his father chortled from behind his newspaper.

“A young man should be coming to his mother about such things.”

Mycroft and his father shared a look. “Leave the boy alone, Margaret.”

She turned from her husband back to Mycroft. “I don't want Sherlock thinking you're the person he comes to with his problems.”

“Then perhaps you should be talking to _him_.” Mycroft pointedly turned his attention back to his book, refraining from mentioning that it had long been Sherlock's choice to prefer his brother's assistance to that of his parents.

“Don't get snippy, Mike.” She paused, seeming to have second thoughts about what she'd meant to say next. “I know you feel protective of your brother, dear. And that does you credit. But we're his parents and know what's best for him.”

_Like letting him eviscerate his memories to let you off the hook for your incredible negligence over Eurus_, Mycroft thought with a grimace that he tried to hide by not meeting his mother's eye. 

When he glanced up a few seconds later, she'd left and his father was peering around the edge of his newspaper, watching for Mycroft's reaction. To his relief, at least his father left him in peace and Mycroft was allowed to return to the consolations of Flaubert, knowing there was trouble just over the horizon.

~ + ~

Over the course of the next 24 hours, Mycroft sensed a heavy anticipation growing in the house. Sherlock was still largely avoiding all of them, their parents seemed not to notice, and Mycroft wondered if it was going to be up to him to broach the subject of Sherlock's problems at school. Loath as he was to give his mother another excuse to be disdainful about his judgement, he knew he couldn't leave the matter unresolved.

While he recognised the issue need to be addressed, the prospect of trying to get his parents to act filled him with an existential dread. But the next afternoon he bucked up his resolve and cornered his parents in the kitchen, knowing Sherlock rarely ventured there except for meals and even then often only under duress.

Mycroft stood in the middle of the room and watched his parents' seemingly aimless bustle, ignoring him. He cleared his throat. They continued to ignore him. He fumed. “Mummy. Father. There's something I'd like to discuss. 

His mother glanced over her shoulder. “Oh? What, dear?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to slicing carrots.

“Sherlock.”

“What about him?” his father asked as he walked by, his hands full of sprouts.

“Did you know he's been having problems at school? Well, more problems.” Mycroft felt a bit of a grass, but he couldn't help wondering of Sherlock had continued with his truancy.

“Oh yes, dear, we know. Mr Philips told us weeks ago.” His mother turned to him, her sham of unconcern not at all convincing. “Why? Did he come to see you?” she asked, exercising her always-inconvenient maternal mind-reading trick.

Mycroft blanched, then decided he probably should answer truthfully. “Yes.”

“Why” his father asked while his mother interjected, “And you didn't see fit to tell us?”

His parents' tag-team acts were never appreciated, but Mycroft kept his annoyance at his mother's catching him in a minor hypocrisy well tamped down. “I don't know; ask him.” He decided to ignore his mother's comment and focus on the more useful thread. “I have no special insight into his motives. I couldn't get any sense out of him at all before he stormed out of my room in a monumental strop and that's the last I heard or saw of him until I came home.”

This information obviously failed to mollify his mother, but that was hardly a surprise to Mycroft. 

“And that's all?”

“I fail to understand why you think I'd lie?”

“Don't you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Margaret, we agreed—” his father interjected, placing a restraining hand on his wife's arm.

His parents shared one of their looks and Mycroft knew he was wasting his time. But he at least needed to try.

“That's all?” his mother asked, and Mycroft wondered if she was berating him for over-reacting or for insufficient investigative skills.

“Yes. Isn't that enough, him haring across the countryside on his own when he should be in school?”

“It's all in hand, son. Don't worry,” his father added and Mycroft thought that if the man followed up with one of his bemused chuckles he'd have no choice but to stomp out, adding weight to his parents' accusations he was the family drama queen.

“Sherlock's special, Mycroft. I know you recognise that. He needs a long lead,” his father continued.

Mycroft couldn't help rolling his eyes. Sherlock's “specialness” seemed to consist of little more than a grotesquely inflated sense of entitlement and complete lack of regard for anything other than his own whims. “He'll be sent down next term if he doesn't at least—and with his record, no decent school would take him on. Unless you have an extra million laying around that you can use to buy him a place, Father.”

“Leave it to us,” his mother added as she disappeared into the pantry.

“And what have you done about it?” Mycroft turned back to his father, who stared back at him from the sink. 

His father craned his head to look around the pantry doorway as he crossed he room; once he'd determined the coast was clear, he whispered, “Mr Phillips did say one thing,” his father began, tentative. “He mentioned Sherlock's behaviour has become erratic.”

“Erratic?” What could that possibly mean, Mycroft wondered. And erratic by what standard? Measured against the stolid, inbred halfwits who made up most of the Marlborough students, Sherlock had always pretty much defined erratic on his best days, much less now.

“Short-tempered, refusing to talk to anyone, snapping at teachers—”

“Being a surly teenager surrounded by his intellectual inferiors”, Mycroft mused, ignoring his father's More in Sorrow Than In Anger expression he'd likely learnt at the knee of his vicar father.

“Really, Mike—” His father glanced again to the pantry door. “Your mother and I—the situation is—delicate right now. And you bringing this up right now isn't helping. If you could—”

The veiled reference to That Thing They Never Acknowledged and The Person They Pretended Had Never Existed set Mycroft's teeth on edge. He had to get out of there before he said something that blew the entire day up.

“What would you have me say? Once you've decided, let me know. And if you want to know what's going on in Sherlock's head, make the effort to flush him out of his room and grill _him_.” Mycroft stood, straightened his waistcoat, and beat a strategic retreat.

Knowing it would annoy his mother, he grabbed three mince tarts from the cooling rack on the table and headed outside.

Standing in the back garden, coat in one hand, the other scalded by clandestine pastries, Mycroft suddenly felt a complete idiot. He awkwardly pulled on his coat and strode off to the cover of the nearby wood beyond his parents' garden.

Three minutes' walking along the old footpath brought him to his destination. He was surprised to see the old tree still standing and the stack of flat stone slabs that formed a rudimentary seat tucked into the partly-hollow base of the trunk. Mycroft had never bothered to learn what kind of tree the old thing was; while he enjoyed nature (in small doses) he had no curiosity about it.

Mycroft glanced up into the hollow trunk above him and he almost imagined he could see the scuff marks from when a ten year-old Sherlock had tried to see how far he could climb into the trunk. The battle to get a screaming Sherlock unstuck from the tree had left Mycroft with a cracked left occiput and a new twist to his nose from a well-aimed foot, but the memory brought a thin smile to Mycroft's face.

Sherlock had always been careless and selfish. When he was four or five it was to be expected. And in the years after Musgrave it had appeared to Mycroft that Sherlock had learnt some restraint, but now he wondered if he'd misinterpreted the changes in his brother as a growing maturity, when they'd been something else entirely. And he wondered at his parents' complete lack of concern about it.

Though he knew he shouldn't, he couldn't help comparing Sherlock's current behaviour with his own; Sherlock was now the same age Mycroft had been when Musgrave burned to the ground and Eurus was taken away. Not that he would ever want Sherlock put into the position he'd been in those circumstances, but Mycroft did wonder if his parents' (and his own) efforts to protect Sherlock had in the end just prevented him from growing up.

Lost in his own thoughts, Mycroft didn't hear the approaching footsteps until they were almost upon him; to his surprise it wasn't his father, come to wheedle him into capitulating to his mother. It was Sherlock, who seemed just as surprised to find Mycroft there as Mycroft was to see Sherlock out of his room.

“Finished wanking for the day?” Mycroft asked as Sherlock gave him a shove to move over and make room for him on the slab.

“Started chafing,” Sherlock muttered, then took the mince tart Mycroft held out for him.

“Hand cream.” Mycroft bit into the last tart and stared back down the footpath. “If you're too embarrassed to go to Boots and get proper lubricant.”

Sherlock only grunted in acknowledgement as he brushed pastry crumbs from his hands. “Tell me about your secret girlfriend.”

“Why? You'll never meet her.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

“You never 'just make conversation'.”

Sherlock shrugged again and seemed to fold in on himself a bit. Mycroft berated himself for thoughtlessly rebuffing the first instance of his brother reaching out to him since he'd arrived home. Perhaps his mother was right; perhaps he was an idiot.

~ + ~

Mycroft spent the next day doing everything possible short of holing himself up in his room all day to avoid his parents. Sherlock rarely left his and Mycroft was chagrined to note that his brother never seemed to be on the receiving end of scornful comments from their mother because of it.

The weather Christmas Eve didn't help; the heavy drizzle and fog filling the valley trapped them all inside. Mycroft knew he could always escape if it became truly unbearable, but even his father seemed to know that bolting for his usual refuge—the shed at the end of the back garden—would exact a heavy price in spousal opprobrium. So they all rattled around in the house, like figures on a weather clock: Mycroft and his father tactically avoiding Margaret, who made sudden forays out of the kitchen when they least expected her.

Mycroft couldn't recall a more miserable Christmas.

He imagined their first Christmas at the cottage had been worse. But as he'd deleted most of his memories of the year after Musgrave, he couldn't remember.

As the days had counted down to Christmas, Mycroft had felt the tension in the house seep into his bones and sinew. By Christmas Eve, his back and neck ached from muscles drawn tight, strained by constant vigilance and holding himself back from just fleeing it all, regardless the consequences.

But he endured, and forced himself to not resent his brother's ability to hide without paying any price for his absence. Mycroft knew that Christmas Day would be the real test; there was no way either of them were escaping the festivities, which his mother took every opportunity to remind them she'd been preparing for weeks.

The night before Christmas, Mycroft sulked in the back lounge with a book and just after midnight had to admit defeat; he had to go to bed, and sleep, and wake up to another Holmes family Christmas Day. 

Staring at his bedroom ceiling an hour later, no closer to sleep, he knew he had to take drastic action. There was only one way to get himself relaxed enough, though the idea of masturbating in his parents' house filled him with dread. He hadn't touched himself in this room since he was fifteen. 

Ten minutes later he was drumming his fingers on the duvet. He glanced at the clock on his night stand: 1:28. With a huff, he gave in to the inevitable and dredged up his most recent masturbation fantasy filmography. His last two encounters with Christina had been added to it; the novelty of them was refreshing and it had been a while since he'd acquired new first-hand material for his mental wanking file.

As his body began to respond to the visualised tactile memories, he allowed himself to sink into one of his favourite fantasies.

~ + ~

Christmas Day turned out to be everything Mycroft had been expecting, and more besides.

As he'd forecast, he woke with a headache, the legacy of five nights' inadequate sleep. The haggard face that greeting him in the bathroom mirror looked twice his age, the deep frown lines around his mouth and across his forehead accurately reflecting how he felt about the world in general. Showering, shaving and dressing felt as though he were swimming through partially-set concrete, his body heavy and sluggish, fighting against unseen resistance that he suspected might be a silenced common sense mutely urging him to flee.

When he arrived in the kitchen for breakfast, his mother's stiff shoulders communicated that she was in one of her moods. His father had donned his usual Christmas red and green tartan bowtie and red jumper, but it formed a counterpoint to his solemn expression. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, to Mycroft's complete lack of surprise.

In the end, his father has to go up and roust Sherlock, and it wasn't until he arrived that their mother deigned to acknowledge anyone else in the room. When she turned from the Aga, Mycroft saw she'd been crying recently and his heart sank. As they ate, not even his father's (half-hearted) attempts at seasonal jollity lightened the atmosphere. His mother silent, his brother morose and his father defeated by the general gloom: Mycroft at least felt at home in that moment.

The heavy fug of discontent hardly shifted as they moved on to the gift-opening ritual, though Mycroft's effusive thanks to his parents for their gift were entirely unfeigned. They'd given him a beautiful briefcase “for when you're out in the world, son,” as his father said when handing the parcel to him. His gift from Sherlock was expensive enough, appropriate enough and tasteful enough that he instantly knew that it had been chosen and purchased by their mother: an Italian silk tie in a fine French blue and butter yellow check that made Mycroft think of Trinity colours and Harry's new regimental tie.

To everyone's relief, Margaret's mood seemed to lift a bit as she prepared dinner. Mycroft sensed he needed to stay out of her way and so spent most of the middle of the day reading in the back lounge. To his surprise, Sherlock stayed downstairs as well, sprawled on the other sofa, plugged into his Discman and working his way through the hefty Mozart box set their parents had given him.

The rest of the day passed as it usually did: eating too much, complaining about eating too much, half-hearted assertions about the healthful benefits of afternoon walks, and napping.

In the early evening, with the benefit of a three-hour nap, Mycroft felt almost chipper again. To his surprise, when he returned downstairs Sherlock was still on the sofa in the lounge, looking as though he hadn't moved in hours. He was still refusing to speak to anyone, but you couldn't have everything, Mycroft mused.

Eventually the day wound down; Sherlock retiring first and Mycroft following not long after. Laying in bed again, unable to sleep, he thought to read for a bit. He'd left his book in the lounge; as he reached the top of the staircase he was surprised to hear his parents still below. While he couldn't make out their words, his mother's tone stopped him in his tracks, then caused him to slip carefully down the first three steps to the point just before the creaky stair and the turn would give him away.

“I've never seen him like this. It's perverse.”

“He's just being a teenager, like Mike said. Sherlock's always been emotional, so it's natural he's going to be a bit moody for the next few years.”

“Natural? There's nothing natural about refusing to speak to anyone and holing up in a fetid little room all day. It was the most I could do to get in there and air it out for half an hour yesterday.”

Mycroft could tell from his father's pause that he knew exactly why Sherlock was spending so much time in his room, just as Mycroft did.

“He spent time with us today. Perhaps he'll come out of his shell a bit for the next week, before he goes back.”

“He's spent time with Mycroft.” Margaret paused and Mycroft knew the character assassination was coming now. “I don't like his attitude toward any of this.”

His father sighed. “Mycroft's always been difficult, but he does his best.”

_Thanks a ton, Father._

“And Sherlock's been avoiding his brother, as well, not just us.”

“Sherlock went to Oxford to see him; that's hardly 'avoiding'.”

“Did Mycroft ever tell you what that was about? He was—”

“Vague, yes. Suspiciously so. I can't help but think—”

“I think you might be getting a bit paranoid, dear.”

“It's never paranoia where Rudy's concerned.” 

Mycroft waited for his father to reply, rebut—anything, really, but nothing came for half a minute or so. “At Mycroft's age—it's natural a young man's going to stretch his wings a bit. He's not a child anymore. You can't expect him to cling to your skirts—” 

“Like he ever did. I don't—I try, Tom, I really do. I just—I don't understand him. I never have. He's always been such a cold, unloving child. I do my best, for years and years and what does he do? Abandon us for _my brother_ the first chance he gets. And now he wants to hand Sherlock over to him, too. I won't allow it. Rudy's taken two children from me; I'll be damned if I stand back and let him take Sherlock, as well. He can't be trusted.”

“That's a bit much, dear. Sherlock's situation is entirely different from Mycroft's or Eu—” his father caught himself just in time and Mycroft barely held back a gasp at his astonishing stupidity for almost saying _that_ name when Sherlock was in the house. He glanced down the corridor; to his relief, Sherlock's door was still firmly closed. “Rudy's been a tremendous help to Mycroft. You know he has, Margaret, you can't deny it, even if you want to. And if Mike wants to go into the Civil Service after university, then Rudy will be able to help him. Already has, from what he's said—”

“What has he said? He's never mentioned anything to me—”

“Do you blame him?”

“I'm his mother. If Rudy had wanted children to manipulate and control he should have sorted himself out and married and had his own—”

“That's hardly fair—”

“—instead of trying to steal mine away from me. But then, he's spent his entire life taking what was mine—”

Mycroft could almost hear his father's eyes rolling as his mother launched into another one of her tirades about how her parents had always favoured her older brother simply because he was the son and ignored their “much brighter” daughter simply because she was a girl. He tuned it out until his name made another appearance.

“Mike's modelling himself on Rudy; I can see it now already. It just shows how flawed his character is. I can't believe any child of mine would be so lacking in imagination—”

“Let it go, dear; you're just upsetting yourself.”

“God only knows what he's getting up to at Oxford. And I can see straight through what that brother of mine is doing. He's setting Mikey up to—”

At least his mother had the modicum of sense to not actually mention the scheme to manage Sherlock's memories, Mycroft noted with a grimace. The room below him was silent for a minute or so and he wondered if his mother was going the whole hog: summoning another flight of crocodile tears, her favourite weapon when up against any kind of resistance.

“I miss her so much. I can't help but think what's she'd be like now, what she'd look like. A teenager, a young woman now, not a little—” his mother paused. Mycroft barely resisted the urge to stomp down the stairs and tell them to bloody well shut their mouths before they undid years' worth of work. It was infuriating that his mother had so little restraint, was so selfish she couldn't wait a week until Sherlock was back at school to indulge her need to whine about how hard done by she felt. And his father—spineless as always—making no effort to restrain her. 

“I know it's difficult for you, this time of year,” his father murmured just at the edge of Mycroft's hearing. “It is for all of us.”

“Not him; he never mentions her—”

“He can't, Margaret. None of us can.”

“Not even when it's just us? I think he's glad she's gone. He was always jealous of her; he wanted everyone to think he was the cleverest, the way he lorded it over Sherlock. He never paid attention to her, that's why—”

“You're just upsetting yourself—”

“—he was so neglectful, that day. It never would have happened if he'd been paying attention. No matter how hard I try, I can never forgive him for that. That poor little boy, and what's happened to Sherlock since—”

Mycroft didn't hear the rest of his mother's words. The world seemed to suddenly halt at the surface of his skin. No sound, no sensation at all seemed to exist outside his body. Inside was an echoing blankness, a void exploding out from his mind; every thought he'd ever had for the last 22 years tumbled in as the black hole at the centre of his being expanded until he was just a thin, hollow shell.

When he regained enough sense of his surroundings, he stood and lurched up the stairs, pausing to prevent himself from tripping. As he walked the corridor to his room he stretched out his arms so that his fingertips traced the walls, the only way he could make himself walk a straight line, his mind overcome by his resurgent mental functions.

As quietly as he could, he closed his door and sat on the bed, not bothering to put on the light.

He held his head very still in an effort to minimize the rising tornado of disconnected thoughts and very connected rage swirling and crashing into each other and the walls of his mind. Through the maelstrom, he carefully reconstructed, word by word, what his mother had said, parsing it for any possible interpretation other than that for seven years his mother had been blaming _him_ for what Eurus had done. That he had been neglectful and that this had led Eurus to do what they all suspected (but considering the absence of a body had no proof) she had done. 

He suppressed a hysterical giggle. He wondered if his mother had somehow convinced herself that Mycroft was responsible for Eurus burning Musgrave down, as well. What about the hospital and the people she'd murdered there? Was he to carry the burden for all of it?

The discerning part of his mind went through the motions of cogitating while the other 95% screamed and screamed, enraged and feral, until his mind contained nothing else. Then he forced it to stop.

The part of Mycroft's brain that usually sat quietly in a metaphorical corner and calmly watched the rest of his mind freak out in stressful situations cleared its metaphorical throat and whispered, “Go now.” Ordinarily, Mycroft would weigh the pros and cons of that kind of decision and determine the costs of any kind of rash action. But not this night. Not after this. There were no consequences he cared one fig about after this.

As if in a daze he stood, opened his wardrobe, pulled out his suitcase, and began to pack. After a minute or so he heard his parents climb the stairs and enter their room, but he made no effort to disguise what he was doing. 

Mycroft could feel his sensate mind expand again as the black hole was banished to a far corner by the cold, resolute anger that replaced it. He would call Rudy in the morning and leave a message that he was arriving a week early, then take the first train he could to London. He might have to take a bus to Arundel, and it likely would take forever to get to his destination, but he didn't care. There was no way he was spending a minute more under this roof than he had to, and he was more glad than ever that he had already resolved that this Christmas at home would be his last.

~ + ~

Mycroft awoke on Boxing Day and lay motionless in bed for a minute or so, listening to see if anyone else was up. Beyond rain on the window and the occasional creak as beams expanded in the cold humidity, the house was silent. His watch on the bedside table indicated it was just after eight o'clock and despite the late night and early morning, Mycroft felt remarkably rested, his mind clear. Now that much of the weight on his mind had lifted, he felt almost giddy.

Careful to not make any noise, he made his way to the kitchen and the telephone on the dresser. He wasn't surprised that Rudy didn't answer that early in the day, and Mycroft left a message that he would be arriving in London that afternoon or early evening. He resolved to try again from the station to ensure his uncle knew to expect him. 

After hanging up, Mycroft realised he should probably have checked the trains before calling. A quick rummage through the drawers revealed a tattered rail schedule and to his consternation he would have to wait almost two hours for the next train to London. He wasn't looking forward to asking his father to drive him to the station. For a moment he contemplated just taking the car and leaving it in the village, though if he did he'd be hearing about it for the rest of his life.

A quiet rustling drew his attention just before his father shuffled into the kitchen. Surprisingly astute, he saw the train schedule on the counter and turned a sad expression to Mycroft. Neither of them said anything for a few seconds and Mycroft wondered if his father had the nous to make the deductive leap to why Mycroft was leaving a week early. Though even in the face of his father's disappointment, Mycroft refused to feel guilty about hurting his feelings. He wondered if he would ever feel guilty again, and decided to add it to the pile of things to worry about later, if ever.

As his father walked to the sink, he muttered, “I can take you to the 10:16 train.”

“Thank you.”

His father filled the kettle and watched it work toward the boil, his back pointedly to Mycroft, who noticed just how serenely unconcerned he was about the emotional currents swirling around them.

Without turning around, his father spoke again. “If I can ask a favour, don't take your brother with you.” Then he finally turned and Mycroft saw that his father knew (or presumed) why he was leaving. His father turned back to the counter as the water boiled and he filled the large brown teapot. “Unless you want to break with your mother completely.”

Mycroft stood in the middle of the room, staring at his father's back while his brain's previous disorientating emptiness began to take over again. He fought back the questions he wanted to demand answers to, but which he knew would never be acknowledged, like drowning men reaching out to a rescue ship before sinking back under the waves. Every experience in this family had taught him that his father would never, under any circumstances, choose his children over his wife, and those questions—even the contemplation of providing an honest answer—would require him to do just that. So Mycroft remained silent, standing in the corner, watching his father make tea and wondering if this was the end of his life or the beginning.

He'd not thought to ask Sherlock to accompany him to London, but his father inserting the idea into the quickly-evolving matrix of his possible responses to the previous evening, married to a visceral need to hurt his mother, caused him to give the idea serious consideration. Not that he would need to ask, he soon realised; the moment Sherlock discovered Mycroft was leaving he'd grasp that lifeline and demand his brother take him along, regardless that he loathed Rudy.

“You're up early,” his mother said as she bustled past. When she saw her husband's expression, she stopped, then turned to face Mycroft. “What's going on?”

“Mycroft's leaving.”

“What? That's ridiculous; he's here for another week.”

_For a supposed genius, you can be remarkably dim, Mummy,_ Mycroft wanted to reply in the most vituperative tones he could muster. He fought back the tide of rage that threatened to overturn his previous resolution to at least get out of that house without another argument. Before his resolve could waver he turned his back to her and began to replace the items he'd removed from the dresser in his quest for the train schedule. He could almost hear from behind him his parents' conversation of cocked eyebrows, pursed mouths and silent condemnation.

When Mycroft felt ready to face his mother, the phone rang. He recognised the number as Rudy’s, so he picked it up himself. “Hello.”

“Mycroft.”

“Yes, uncle.” He watched his mother’s mouth tighten just before she turned away.

“So you’ve had enough already?”

“Yes.”

Rudy obviously heard something in his voice that Mycroft hadn’t intended. “Ah, she’s in the room. Well, you’ve put me in a bit of a pickle, boy. I’m heading off to Paris tomorrow for the New Year.”

“I could—”

“No, you really couldn’t; I can’t have you stay when I’m not here. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something before you arrive. What train are you taking?”

“The 10:16.”

“You’ll be here for lunch, then. I suppose I can rustle something up. You’re not bringing your brother, are you?”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Well, you should make sure you get out of the house before he drags himself out of bed, then, or he’ll want to tag along.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw Sherlock shuffle into the room, yawning and scratching the back of his neck. “Why is everyone up so bloody early?” he muttered as he made for the teapot like a heat-seeking missile.

“I’ll take care of it,” Mycroft said into the phone as he watched the Eugene O’Neill play beginning to unfold in his parents’ kitchen.

“I’ll leave it to you, then. ‘Til this afternoon,” his uncle signed off.

“Yes, about 12:30.” Mycroft hung up.

“Who were you calling this early in the morning?” Sherlock asked as he heaped sugar into his tea.

“Mycroft is abandoning his family for his uncle,” their mother replied.

“Rudy is family too, Mummy,” Mycroft replied, as he always did.

“Making your escape now you’ve got your turkey and swag?”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Mycroft muttered as he poured himself a cup, wishing there were an even earlier train than the 10:16. 

“Don’t talk to your brother that way, Mike,” his father reprimanded in his usual ineffectual manner. Mycroft was surprised that it hadn’t been his mother, but she appeared to be ignoring his existence as she bustled to give herself an excuse to keep her back turned to him, which he thought was likely for the best. He placed his almost-full mug on the counter. “I’m going to finish packing,” he announced to the room in general, and escaped before the mounting pressure of unspoken emotion blew out the windows.

He wasn't surprised to hear Sherlock behind him as he climbed the stairs. He _was_ surprised, though, by his brother’s silence until they were alone in Mycroft’s bedroom.

“Why now? You’re being a shit.” Sherlock sprawled on his bed while Mycroft packed his pyjamas and wash bag.

“Don’t ask questions you really don’t want the answers to.” 

Mycroft had spent some time the night before trying to come up with an adequate reason for his sudden departure that was believable, until he'd discovered that he didn't care what they thought and stopped.

“God, why do you always have to pretend to be so—secretive. If you want to be gone, then go, and stop making such a production of it. It’s just pretentious; but that’s you all over, isn’t it.”

“I think you’ll find it’s our parents who are making the fuss, not me.”

“Mummy will be unbearable, and Father will mope because Mummy’s being unbearable and I’ll be stuck here on my own with no one to talk to—”

“Oh, spare me the drama, Sherlock. You’ve spent the last week and a half holed up in your room. Maybe if you’d made an iota of effort to not be such a selfish brat I might have a little sympathy.”

As Mycroft zipped up his bag, Sherlock retreated to picking at the edges of the duvet, avoiding his brother’s eye. He was agitated, obviously miserable, and Mycroft hated to see both, but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to put Sherlock’s convenience ahead of his own sanity.

“What will you do in London?” Sherlock eventually asked, still sulking.

“Not be here, mostly.” Mycroft tried to inject a bit of humour into proceedings and was glad to see Sherlock give a very slight smirk in reply. “What will you do?”

“Stay out of Mummy’s way until the snit is over. Then stay out of Mummy’s way when she gets the whim to try a spot of family bonding.”

“I’d bring you along, but—”

“Uncle Queenie told you not to.”

“Sherlock—” 

“I’m surprised I even found out before you left, instead of just finding an empty place at the dinner table.”

Mycroft thought he should probably end the conversation before it descended into even greater rancour, so he conceded, “It’s probably best for everyone if I go.”

“Best for you, you mean.”

“Sherlock—” Mycroft threw his hands in the air. “Tell me what I should do to make everyone happy. Do you know? If you do, I’d appreciate it if you shared, because I certainly don’t.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll call when I’m settled; you can join me then if you like.”

“Unlike you, I have to come back here.”

It was too much, all of a sudden. Mycroft dropped onto the bed. “Sherlock, I know you feel powerless in—”

“No you don’t—”

“—the current situation—”

“—you’ve always been allowed to do what you want.”

“—and I remember what it is to be fourteen and feel overwhelmed—”

“You have no idea what it’s like to be me, Mycroft.”

“—by things you have no control over.” Mycroft paused, mind on the edge of indiscretion. “No, you’re right. I have no idea what it’s like to be my parents’ favourite, to be coddled and infantilised, protected from consequences and reality at all costs.” He stood and stared down at Sherlock, who was avoiding his eye. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me, either. Always expected to do the scut work and clean up everyone else’s mistakes. And then told nothing you do is ever good enough.”

He thought that parting line unlikely to be topped in his current state of mind, so he picked up his bag and headed downstairs. It was almost an hour earlier than they needed to leave for the train, but five minutes later he and his father were in the car heading south-west. 

By unspoken agreement they were both silent, and Mycroft wasn’t sure which would feel worse: stilted, meaningless chatter that avoided everything that had happened in the last week, or this silent, swarming emotion trapped in the confines of the family car. Grim-faced, his father clutched the steering wheel with fierce intent; Mycroft had never seen him angrier, and he could only imagine what his mother had said to get his father into this state while Mycroft was upstairs with Sherlock. So he wasn’t surprised when his father didn’t wait with him at the station, or give him the usual hug before departing. 

Ordinarily, he would have grumbled at the cold, windy platform, but the conditions matched his mood too well, and the air helped to cool his overheated cheeks. As he'd hoped, the train was far from full, as most people who'd travelled for the holiday would be going home the next day, a Sunday.

Mycroft tried to let go of the residual anxiety he could tell he was still labouring under, but none of his usual coping mechanisms were working. He'd theorised that this year might be different, knowing that it was likely to be his last Christmas with his parents for many years. Perhaps, unknown to his conscious mind, he'd secretly possessed the hope that things would be better this year, that he'd be able to leave on civil terms. Was this the source of his unshakable disappointment? 

No matter how much he tried to leave Amberley behind, the memory of his mother’s words consumed him. Eventually he realised it wasn't just his mother's grotesque delusions that fuelled his anger; for the last seven years he’d been unconsciously blaming himself as well for what had happened to Victor. He just hadn't recognised it until now. The self-disgust had been buried so deep he hadn’t even known it was there. And it wasn’t until hearing his mother say the words had dredged it up that he recognised how ridiculous the notion was. 

As he thought back to the previous evening, he saw that his defence had been buried in his mother's own words. To her, he'd always been cold. Unloving. Unlovable. Unloved. 

Mycroft stared out at the wet, blurred countryside trundling by. _Bullshit, Mummy._ Despite her self-serving excuses, in reality she'd been pushing him away ever since Sherlock was born, and now she had the astonishing gall to complain about the entirely natural and predictable consequences. 

Nothing he did would ever be enough for her, no sacrifice adequate. And yet to her there weren't enough tears in the world to shed for the monster she'd spawned, who'd ruined all their lives. Because of course to Margaret her grief was greater than theirs, her loss the only one that mattered. All of them has lost a sister or daughter that day, but his mother's vanity prevented her from seeing anything beyond her own pain. And Mycroft couldn't help his fear that Sherlock would adopt their mother's extraordinary egotism as the foundation of his character if their mother managed to find a way to keep at bay any other influence on him, as she obviously wanted.

But what were his options? How could he help Sherlock resist when he himself hadn't found the way to, short of leaving? Mycroft felt powerless to address any of his fears for his brother, especially now that Sherlock seemed to be pushing everyone away.


	5. An entire world he didn't know, sitting right in front of him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reeling from the revelations of Christmas, Mycroft escapes to London, where Rudy sends him right back to Oxford and Christina and the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the scene that rather stretches the boundary of the current rating. If you're wary of explicit-ish material, you should skip the scene after the visit to the Ashmolean.

Arriving at Rudy’s flat should have brought Mycroft a sense of relief, but it didn’t. He knew from his uncle’s reaction earlier that Rudy was unimpressed at Mycroft’s peremptory change of plans, which likely seemed selfish to him. Mycroft had assumed during the journey from Amberley that he would share with his uncle what he’d heard the previous evening, but now he was faced with it he was having second thoughts. He knew his uncle would interpret the tale as an appeal for sympathy, which would get short shrift.

Mycroft got the apologies over with almost the moment he walked through the door. “I am sorry to impose on your hospitality this way, uncle.”

Rudy waved the words away. “What is family for if not to be imposed upon? And it is only for one night.” He added as Mycroft headed down the corridor to the guest bedroom. 

As he sat on the bed trying to muster the energy to unpack, Mycroft wondered just how much detail his uncle would try to mine from him over lunch. While Rudy often asserted he had no interest in the minutiae of his sister's follies, he rarely missed an opportunity to get Mycroft to acknowledge them and in doing so, reinforce his allegiance to his uncle. He wondered if he'd get away with pleading exhaustion after providing a brief outline, then he immediately realised that Rudy was unlikely to be satisfied with anything less than a full explanation of his peremptory appearance a week early.

With a sigh, Mycroft stood and headed for the dining room; trying to put off the inevitable wouldn't make it any more pleasant. By the time he rejoined his uncle, Mycroft had managed to expunge the scowl that had blighted his expression for days, it seemed. 

Once they'd settled in to their meal Rudy opened with, “I’ve found a solution to your little logistical dilemma.”

Mycroft just gave him a questioning look.

“I’ve engaged a room for you at a hotel in Oxford. At my expense, of course.”

Mycroft waved goodbye to his two weeks in London, visiting museums and galleries. “Thank you, uncle. That’s very generous.”

“You need to get back there to your new friend.”

Mycroft felt his soup turn to sawdust in his mouth. As irritating as the subject was, Mycroft was glad of avoiding the tedium of beating the elephant in the room to death. On the other hand, discussing Christina was only a slightly better alternative.

“How are things progressing on that front?”

“Progressing.” Mycroft had hoped he’d manage to at least get through lunch without the Christina Situation being raised, but it appeared that to his uncle Boxing Day as just another working day. Mycroft wondered if Rudy was still capable of purely social interaction anymore. To his surprise, Rudy allowed him a minute or so of peace before launching back into his inquisition, possibly as his Christmas gift.

“Have you bedded her yet?”

Mycroft had assumed this question would be asked, so had long ago prepared an answer. But at the last instant he tossed it aside for a moment of candour that he hoped would disarm his uncle into leaving the subject alone for the rest of the day.

“That—will require some delicacy.”

“You think she’s uninterested?”

“Not that—” 

“So the problem is you.”

“No, uncle, I’m—”

“I didn’t realise you were—”

“I’m not,” Mycroft interjected with more heat than he’d intended. It did, at least, force his uncle back into his chair as he allowed Mycroft to finish a thought for once. “She isn’t a complete fool, and I believe she has deduced that I have—less experience than her in these matters. So far she’s been amenable to the pace that I’ve set.”

“You have to get there in the end, boy. It’s been a month. The longer you wait, the more difficult it'll be.” Rudy paused as if a thought had just crossed his mind. “Perhaps she’s one of those women—”

Mycroft knew he needed to head his uncle off from that tangent or he’d never get to finish his lunch, and this speculation he didn’t want his uncle following. “No. Let me assure you on that point.”

“Ah—” Rudy paused for a moment and one of his more inscrutable expressions appeared. “Good. Wouldn’t want her getting bored and giving you the push.”

Mycroft agreed, though he didn’t give his uncle the satisfaction of hearing that he did; the man had been getting his way much too often recently.

~ + ~

The next afternoon, Mycroft dutifully took the train back to Oxford, with the prospect of almost two weeks at a mediocre hotel in an almost-empty town before the colleges reopened for the start of Hilary term. 

Regardless of what he might think of the Christina Situation, Mycroft knew that his uncle was right. The term break gave him a perfect opportunity to consolidate and improve on his pre-Christmas gains, and hopefully by the beginning of term it would have progressed from development mode to maintenance, with a consequent reduction in time and effort required on his part. While he was willing to acknowledge what he needed to do, he had tremendous difficulty stirring himself to do it.

The knowledge that he should contact Christina made the occasional importunate call on his attention, but he kept it at bay until early evening. But he knew that if he ran into her in the town before he bothered to let her know he was back in Oxford, it wouldn’t go well for him, so he called her college and left a message asking her to contact him at his hotel.

That evening he tried to distract himself with work. He had papers to complete, but nothing that taxed him and he couldn’t help his mind wandering back to Amberley. The periodic surges of anger weren’t productive, he knew, but there was a part of him that was tired of forcing himself to turn the other cheek. The desire to let go and allow himself to wallow for a day or two plagued him and kept him from thinking much about anything else, so in the end he just allowed himself to wallow a bit to get it over with.

The next morning, Mycroft was wakened by his bedside phone.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Christina's voice called down the line in fake, egregiously cheery tones that made his head ring. He glanced at the clock: 8.07. He groaned dramatically, eliciting the expected laughter.

“I can't believe I'm dating a morning person,” he groused as he rolled over and pulled the duvet over his head with the phone clutched to his ear.

“I won't suggest meeting for breakfast, then.”

“Thank you.”

“How about lunch?”

“Much more civilised.”

“Noon?”

“I'll have barely finished breakfast.”

“Oh, for god's sake. One-thirty, then.”

“Acceptable.”

After agreeing to a cafe near the Ashmolean, Mycroft rolled over and gave himself another hour under the covers to sufficiently prepare himself for the day.

After an almost-adequate breakfast, Mycroft spent two hours staring out the window of his hotel room at the rain, pretending he was working on a paper for Bevan. For the first time in a week and a half he had the opportunity to take a breath, review what had happened since he'd left Oxford, and try to make some sense of it. But he found that the events of the last nine days were the last thing he actually wanted to think about. Even the idea of trying to organise his thoughts exhausted him. He glanced down at his outline; unfortunately, the Suez Crisis held barely any more interest.

Trudging through the near-empty, rainy streets to his lunch date, Mycroft gladly turned his mind away from Amberley and his family; he was “on duty” and it was essential he focus on this job rather than the one he was leaving behind.

When he arrived at the cafe, he joined Christina at a table in the back corner. As he sat, he saw she seemed perplexed about something; her expression shifted to bland neutrality when she saw he'd noticed.

“How was your Christmas?” he asked as he scanned the menu board.

“Quiet. Yours?”

“Not nearly quiet enough.” He paused as she gave an abstracted little chuckle. “But thankfully it's my last one for some time. I hope.”

The conversation died there and Mycroft had no idea how to restart it. Christina displayed no curiosity about his break, which both irked and relieved him. It wasn't as if he wanted to share such personal matters with her, but as his “girlfriend” shouldn't she be at least a little curious about his life? Wasn't that the norm? She toyed with her utensils, avoiding his eye and Mycroft speculated that he might actually prefer the sarcastic “cheer” of that morning to the current moping.

His mind scrambled for something to say, and after at least twenty seconds of pained silence, he finally came up with: “I've always wondered: why econometrics?”

A corner of her mouth quirked up in a momentary note of chagrin that puzzled him as she replied, “Numbers are more fun than people.”

“That's not a commonly-held opinion.”

“I know.” She turned her attention back to her hands, to all appearances lost in thought. Mycroft had no idea what to say to break the rising tension between them. Though he wondered if the tension was really between them, or if it was just that her mood was as disordered as his.

“Are you planning on ignoring the day from now on?” She eventually asked and it took him a second to catch what she was referring to.

“I will be working next year—”

“A good excuse to not go home.” She nodded, obviously only giving him half her attention. 

“You didn't go home for Christmas.” It wasn't a question, only a passing observation, and Mycroft wondered at his mind providing him with nothing but statements of the obvious to fill the uncomfortable gaps in the conversation. Perhaps he should just go back to his room and lick his wounds rather than risk alienating her with his idiocy.

She shrugged. “No home to go to.”

“I envy you.” The words hurdled over his mental filters and escaped the clutches of his usual good sense; he knew in an instant he'd made a mistake in doing so as her expression turned to outright disdain. It was entirely unlike the slightly world-weary bemusement he normally faced and Mycroft wondered if he was seeing her true character for the first time. 

“Stop pretending to be an idiot.”

He sat back in his chair, slapped back by her tone. “I see. So, tell me why I should be so grateful for—”

“God, you spoiled brat,” she started, instantly on the attack, striking the middle of the table between them with an accusatory finger to tap out the rhythm of her argument. “You think you're so hard done by because your parents like your brother more than you. You think you're hard done by because you think you're better than them. Are they too common for you? Not smart enough? They don't understand you? They don't appreciate your 'brilliance'? Well you know what, your parents most likely actually love you. They probably did their best. Maybe they failed, but at least they fucking tried. But no one as arrogant and self-entitled as you grew up neglected so cut out the fucking self-pity.” She glanced away for a moment before turning hard eyes back to him. “Not all of us get that, you know.”

Mycroft stared back across the table at her, the desire to stand up and leave vying with shock and curiosity about this strange display of—he wasn't sure what it was that had caused her outburst other than that it hadn't been due to anything he'd said.

If their previous conversations had felt like fencing, this one was turning into a boxing match and Mycroft had no idea why she'd decided to escalate an offhand remark into blood sport. Regardless, he was hardly in the mood to be scolded by _anyone_, much less her. He stood.

Christina pointed at his chair. “Sit.”

“I rather think I won't. Both of us—”

“—are in the mood for a fight. But who we want to beat up isn't each other, is it?”

To Mycroft's surprise, her burst of anger seemed to have dissipated entirely. He wished it had taken his along with it, but the residual outrage he felt at her unprovoked attack still simmered away in his mind and body, so he wasn't ready to make up just yet.

“Sorry,” she said with apparent sincerity and more contrition than he would have expected from her. “And there's our waiter,” she added, nodding towards the hesitant young man approaching slowly. “Let's not talk about Christmas, okay?”

With some trepidation—and only because he needed to make headway with her, he assured himself—Mycroft sat again. “I'm willing to agree to your terms if you stick to them as well.” To his relief, she only chuckled and turned to greet their waiter.

An hour later, accord seemed to have been restored between them and Mycroft wondered if he were really interested in two or more months of her flamboyant, quixotic temper. He could tell she was making an effort to keep the tone light and amiable, though there was a residual undercurrent of tension in her posture and mood. It made him wary, but he'd made his decision and now he had to live with it.

When they left the cafe, Christina suggested a visit to the Ashmolean. Mindful of Rudy's order to get on with things, Mycroft agreed.

It was a learning experience, and not the kind Mycroft would have expected. In one of the tiny rooms allocated to the ancient pottery collection, he discovered that Christina had a smattering of both Classical Latin and Greek, the provenance of which she refused to divulge, only giving him a cryptic smile. Her knowledge of art, while obviously self-taught, at least gave evidence of some powers of observation and a willingness to think about what she was looking at, even if she did have the temerity to deride Millais as _vulgar_. Mycroft's professed horror at the notion made her laugh out loud.

They managed to pass a congenial two hours in the museum and when they left were pleased to discover that the rain had stopped.

“So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?” Christina asked as she buttoned her coat.

“I have a paper I really should finish. You?”

“Nothing. Free as a bird.” She startled him by slipping her arm in his and gently steering him in the direction of his hotel. “Let me walk you home.”

“All right.” Amused by her proprietary attitude, Mycroft wondered what her intentions might be now.

He didn't have to wait long to find out. When they arrived at his hotel, she seemed loath to let him go in, and it took Mycroft a few seconds to figure out why. When the realisation struck, it must have shown on his face, because her eyebrows hitched up slightly and for a moment the corners of her mouth curled upward in a very knowing smile. Then to his consternation, she waited for him to make the next move. Once the surprise at her now-obvious intentions passed, he took a step closer and looked down at her intently. “Would you like to come up?”

“Okay.” Her slightly arch tones told Mycroft that his deduction was correct, and he tried (and failed) to not castigate himself for again passively following as Christina dragged him along the path to his mandated destination.

Once they arrived in his room, she released him from his metaphorical tether, virtually ignoring him as she examined the room in detail.

“Looking for hidden cameras?” he asked.

“No. Why? Do you usually install them in your hotel rooms?”

“Not as a general rule, no.”

Perched on the end of the bed, he glanced around his perfectly ordinary, middle-grade hotel room. Answering his unasked question as he watched her examine the contents of the mini-bar, Christina said, “I've never been in a hotel room before.”

“What?”

Mycroft realised his face must have been goggling at her as much as his brain was at the notion of someone their age who'd never been in a hotel before, because her mulish face was back on again. Before he could apologise, she made her displeasure even more obvious.

“Why are you staying in a hotel over Christmas break instead of at home with your family?”

_Dammit!_ He wondered if it would be more productive to answer her question as if it wasn't a ticking bomb or call her out on her efforts to derail the conversation.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For upsetting you. I didn't mean to imply—” 

“Yes you did. Look, I get that your family's rich—”

“They most definitely are not.” He wasn't able to hold back his indignation, but he thought it was warranted.

She didn't say anything for a few seconds and Mycroft began to wonder what exactly was going on. “Christina, what are we doing here?”

Her expression shifted to “You've got to be kidding me”, but her eventual reply was more restrained. “You don't want this?”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft wondered if he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

“We don't have to now, we can—”

“Now is fine.”

She broke off a laugh. “That's—yeah, okay. I think I'll go.” She headed for the door; startled, Mycroft grabbed her arm as she brushed past.

“I'm sorry. I—” He stopped; he didn't have the first clue how to make her want to stay. This time she didn't come to his rescue; she just looked down at him, face solemn while his brain sputtered along blindly in the search for his holy grail: whatever would give him the opportunity to get his plan back on track. “I'm being an ass, I know.”

She didn't argue the point, but she didn't press it either. Mycroft felt the balance of the moment begin to tilt ever so slightly his way. Perhaps a smidgen of honesty would help, he speculated. 

“It's been a horrible week and I'm making you suffer for it, which is inexcusable.” He released her arm. Either she would accept his tiny capitulation or she wouldn't; hanging on to her would have no impact on her decision.

“Family Christmas,” she said ruefully as she sat next to him.

Mycroft was glad to see her back down so quickly. She surprised him by taking his hand in hers, though neither of them moved otherwise, each lost in their own thoughts as they stared out the window into the darkening afternoon.

He was surprised at the comfort given by this simple act, and decided after a few seconds that he appreciated it (for what that was worth) and was unwilling to give it up at the moment. “They fuck you up, your mum and dad,” Christina whispered.

Mycroft turned to her and while he watched, her expression shifted from sad back to her more usual bemusement as she turned to meet his eye. “Philip Larkin,” she added when she saw he had no idea what she was talking about. “You really ought to try reading something other than _The Times_ and _The Economist_.

He blurted the first words that came to mind. “You read _The Economist_.”

She chuckled. “That's because I _am_ an economist. Unlike you, who pretends to want to be one.”

He put on a sham of offence. “I'm not sure I appreciate that implication.”

Her slight laughter communicated little more than relief their argument was over. She flopped back onto his bed and after a moment gave a slight tug to his jacket sleeve, her personal semaphore for “I'd very much like you to kiss me now.” 

He complied.

~ + ~

Her undressing communicated no aura of seduction; it was methodical, bordering on perfunctory. As Mycroft unknotted his tie, she stripped off her shirt, exposing a lean, strong back. As he watched the muscles shifting under skin that appeared to have never seen the sun, his hands were stunned into immobility by the realisation of how he must appear to her once he revealed himself. The contrast between her body—an active, normal life made flesh—and his flabby, wormlike softness was startling. Would she be repelled by him? Would she reject him? Worst of all, would his physical grossness send his plan back to square one? Why hadn't he thought of this until now? Why hadn't he bothered to lose a stone, make an effort—why— His brain stuttered to a stop when she turned to face him. 

He drew in a long breath, confronted with the first pair of naked breasts he'd ever seen in person. He wasn't quite sure what to make of them, so he turned his attention to her face. She was a little pink about the cheeks as she stepped over to him and gently took his tie out of his slack hands, carefully rolled it up and placed it on the bedside table. 

When she turned, he noticed on her left shoulder four tiny brown moles in the exact pattern as the tail of Ursa Major; he reached out to trace their path, reciting their names in his mind (_Megrez, Alioth, Mizar, Alcaid_). She stilled, allowing his fingertip to follow their path to her scapula. He wondered what it felt like to be so comfortable with one's own body, to be willing to bare it without hesitation, as if doing so was the most ordinary thing in the world. His fingers travelled on to three V-shaped scars about one centimetre across, like a child's abstraction of birds in flight. Mycroft briefly wondered at them before she turned back to him, swinging her hair over her shoulder.

He stood unmoving, unsure what to do next, and for the first time in his life regretted his long-held revulsion of pornography. A bit of guidance, however unrealistic, would go down a treat.

Christina stared up at him, obviously wondering if she should put her clothes back on and leave. Mycroft forced his hands onto her waist and the feel of her body pressed against his still-clothed one seemed to begin the ever-so-slow libido awakening process. 

She gently tapped his temple. “Stop thinking with this.” Mycroft hiccoughed as she palmed his crotch. “And start thinking with this. Just for the next hour or so.” Then she winked at him and stepped back to give him some space. Feeling slightly more confident, Mycroft began to undress. He yelped and his hands flew from his shirt buttons to grasp her wrist as she reached out and gently squeezed the head of his rapidly-hardening penis.

She glanced down to her hand. “Hello there.” Mycroft choked off a nervous laugh and decided to call her bluff; he pressed her hand more firmly against him as he wrapped his arms around her and leant down for a kiss.

“Oh, you want more of that, do you?” she whispered as she kissed him back for a minute. Then she crawled back onto the bed with a feral grin. “You'll just have to get naked and come get it, then.”

As he hurriedly toed off his shoes, Mycroft wondered where his unquestioning obedience came from. Then his prick told his brain to take the rest of the afternoon off and let it take the reins for a while. Mycroft was terrified and exhilarated and he finally did laugh when Christina pulled aside his unbuttoned shirt and nuzzled to seek out a nipple in his thick chest hair. He gulped in surprised pleasure as she bit down gently and in revenge he pulled her hair to bring her up for another kiss.

Afterwards, she gazed up at him with one of her bemused smiles as he crawled over her on the bed, and he could tell she wanted to say something.

“What?” he prompted.

“Nothing.”

“No, really.”

“Yes, really.” Her left hand stole down his now-naked chest to the waistband of his pants. She cocked an eyebrow as her fingertips slid under, questing for the head of his cock, now very interested in proceedings thank-you-very-much. In reply, he grabbed her wrist and helped it to its target and gifted her with a moan, just in case there might be any possible doubts about his agreement with her plans.

On an impulse he cupped her left breast and leant down to take the nipple in his mouth. _Aha_, he thought as he heard a gasp. She stilled, and as he explored with hands and mouth she vibrated ever so slightly. Glad to know his instincts had led him well so far, Mycroft continued and was rewarded with something akin to a whimper. In retaliation, one of her hands slid around the back of his neck and began to caress the hair at his nape. It was his turn to gasp and he gazed up at her for a moment; uncomfortable with the intensity of her expression, he turned his attention back to trying to wring another one of those whimpers from her, launching an experiment: lips, tongue, a tracing of teeth.

“God, that,” she whispered and Mycroft felt a surge of—_ hello, lust, you old devil_. He capitulated to his arousal, immersing himself in the sensation of her skin under his hands, her lips on his as he grasped her thigh and ground down onto her. When he pulled back, she smiled wickedly up at him as she reciprocated, answering his wordless proclamation of intent with one of her own.

The tiny portion of Mycroft's brain not blasted open with arousal wondered where his hesitation had gone, his resolve to retain some modicum of self-control. And it observed, censorious, wondering why he didn't care that he'd flung it away the moment she'd touched him. He knew he was making a fool of himself, but she didn't seem to care. Under her mouth and hands he flailed, ground against her and allowed himself to want _everything_. And that want convinced him to let her take control, to take her pleasure from him and give his in return.

In embarrassingly short order his orgasm blazed through him to turn his mind inside out and blast all his higher order functions into the stratosphere as chemicals and hormones and delirium crashed through every system in his body.

As his consciousness began to come back on line he heard himself quietly chanting, “God, Chris, yes,” over and over while he watched, agog, as she continued to pursue her own pleasure. His hands were clumsy, almost numb with excess sensation, scrabbling at the backs of her thighs while she rode him, head thrown back and gasping at the ceiling, one hand reaching back to brace herself against his bent knee and the other between her legs. 

Then came the most extraordinary thing he'd ever seen in his life, almost unimaginable that it was his sack of porridge body giving her such obvious pleasure as she reached orgasm, whining, breathless, shaking, in the end curled up over his stomach as she clung onto the last dregs of it, before collapsing, almost winding him.

For a few seconds Mycroft just lay there, stunned. His mind calmly informed him that owing to a system-wide overload, there would be significant service reductions until stimulation levels returned to normal, and he wasn't to bother it in the meantime. 

Unbidden by his now-absent brain, one of his hands slowly ran up and down her back. She didn't move or make a sound and he wondered if she'd passed out. Was it possible to orgasm yourself into a stroke, he idly wondered. That would be inconvenient. 

~ + ~

Mycroft was woken the next morning by the sound of the ensuite shower. He was alone in bed; he checked the clock: 9.32. Rolling back up under the duvet, he groaned at the surprising stiffness throughout his body. Who'd have known sex would be so strenuous? Perhaps his escapades with Christina would—if nothing else—get him into better trim.

As he lay there cataloguing his aches and pains, the shower stopped and a minute later Christina emerged from the bathroom. 

“Hiding?” she asked, drawing the duvet down to reveal his head, like a turtle poking its head from its shell. She was naked, standing in the middle of his room as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do, and Mycroft was again struck by her blasé attitude to showing her body to him. He hadn't yet decided if he thought her attitude admirable or exhibitionist. Not that he minded, either way.

“Um—” he started, then stopped. She waited for him to say something, then seemed to give a mental shrug and proceeded to dress.

“Ah, I—” Mycroft started again. Then stopped, again, his usual fluency of thought blockaded by his inability to formulate a coherent thought that communicated anything other than fatuous gratitude or embarrassment.

“Call me later in the week,” she said offhandedly as her head appeared out of the top of her sweater. Mycroft couldn't help but think she was racing to escape him.

“Um. Yes, of course.”

There must have been something in his tone, as she stilled in the middle of the room. “No, really. Call me.”

“All right.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course, I'll—”

“Great.” She stood from pulling on her boots, then strode across the room, bent over and kissed him quickly while giving the back of his neck a playful scratch that sent a hot spear of lust down his spine. “Talk to you soon.”

“Uh.” He shoved down his desire as he watched her pull on her coat. “Christina—”

“Yeah.” She paused, one hand reaching out for the door handle, then nonchalantly pulled her hand back and slid it into her pocket. “Thank you,” stumbled out before he could formulate something less embarrassing.

For the first time, he saw her confused, though he didn't understand why. She appeared genuinely perplexed by his thanks, before a genuine smile appeared. “You're welcome,” she replied, then gave him a lascivious wink as she strode out the door.

_So that's a shag and dash_, Mycroft mused as he flopped back onto the bed.

After Christina's hasty departure, Mycroft was at a loss. Unmotivated to do anything else, he lounged in bed and tried to wrap his head around what had happened. Stroboscopic flashes of sensation periodically crashed his thought processes, demanding his attention and rendering him largely incapable of anything approaching his usual level of rational thought.

Mycroft had never experienced anything like the previous night; he wouldn't have even imagined sex would be anything like what he'd experienced. And he had no basis for comparing it to anything else in his life because it was so fundamentally different from his previous sexual experiences. Not just because it was his first time with a woman.

Before—without exception before it had been just hands and mouths, desperation and shame and fear of being caught. Fear had driven the desperation, but spiced it as well, with a kind of frantic, grasping delight that Mycroft refused to neuter with the gloss of nostalgia. Schoolboy “rumpy pumpy”, as Christina had called it, indeed. And the other time, the much-lamented David Incident, had been drunken complaisance with the will of another. The consequences of that act of madness had been more than sufficient warning against losing control in such a way ever again.

It had been years since anyone had touched him. The once-anticipated sexual smorgasbord of uni he'd looked forward to from the viewpoint of a schoolboy had come to barren nothingness for him. And now this entirely unforeseen—he couldn't think of anything else to call it but a _bacchanal_ of wilful abandonment of any sense whatsoever—forced him to reevaluate whether or not he was equipped for this sort of work. 

It had meant nothing. There were no real feelings between them. But he'd been entirely incapable of maintaining any requisite professional detachment. There was no play or directive from his mind that could have made his body respond to her in the way that it had, and the possibilities that realisation opened didn't feel like freedom. He was—afraid?—but of what he wasn't sure. How was it possible that he understood the circumstances of his own game so poorly?

Mycroft considered trying to reassure himself that his abandoning all reason and self control was solely the result of the long absence of anyone else's touch that—but no. He had to be honest with himself. Once Christina had breached the armaments he kept between himself and the world, his body had succumbed entirely to her, had yearned for it in ways that he didn't understand. The man he'd been that night was unrecognisable to him, and that bothered him more than any other aspect of his confusion. 

The more he tried to grasp the truth of it, the more elusive it seemed. For the rest of the day he felt adrift, like a ship in a fog trying to navigate without a compass and no familiar coastline in sight from which to get his bearings. At one point that morning, he found himself standing in the bathroom of his hotel room, toothbrush in his hand. He had no idea how long he'd been standing there, lost in the reverie of remembering the taste of her skin. Slowly, he looked down as he rested his hand in the centre of his chest, triggering the ghost sensation of her hair dragging across his nipples. In the tiny, echoing room his breathing made a counterpoint to the memory of the sounds she made when he touched her.

He told himself he needed to pull himself together, but three minutes later he still hadn't moved.

Around midday he began to feel more himself, solely by engaging his considerable will to force the importunate memories into a box in the back of his mind, and when they were all inside, shoving the lid closed and (metaphorically) sitting on it, like an overstuffed suitcase full of electric eels.

It helped. But only until that evening. Sliding into bed, the feel of the sheets on his skin and the scent of her on his pillows brought all the memories back, and as he touched himself fell into the indulgence of playing them all over in his mind until exhaustion finally brought sleep and relief.

~ + ~

The next morning, Mycroft received a pleasant surprise (and relieving distraction): a call from Harry, who was coming up to Oxford and proposed that they meet for lunch. Glad for the opportunity to see his old friend again before his redeployment to Northern Ireland, Mycroft readily agreed to meet him at the fencing club a few hours later.

Walking through town, Mycroft gave some thought to his upcoming meeting with Christina—for in his mind she was the reason Harry was at the club.

Mycroft was still unsure what exactly his approach to her should be at this stage of the game. She'd made no effort to contact him after practically bolting from his room the previous morning, and he'd briefly wondered if he might need to start the search for her replacement. But her demeanour hadn't indicated disappointment or unhappiness, so he resolved to not get ahead of himself; he'd make a decision based on how she responded to seeing him again.

When he arrived, Christina and Harry had obviously just finished their bout. Harry wasn't in the main hall, but Christina was standing near one of the pistes. She was still fully kitted out, so Mycroft knew Harry wouldn't be far. He sat nearby and waited.

Christina turned and when she saw him stopped, her sabre poised in the air for a moment before she ambled over and carefully placed it on the chair next to his. Her expression showed only wary concern.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.”

She didn’t speak for as she disassembled her equipment and removed it. Mycroft sat silently, practicing paying attention to someone while only covertly watching them. Christina's expression shifted to a frown, as if presented with unwelcome and unexpected new data. “For a second there, I thought I might have misjudged.”

“Misjudged what?”

“You. I didn’t think you were the sort to get attached.”

Mycroft was on the point of reflexively snapping back that he _most definitely was not_, when he paused, startled by the realisation of what her statement implied. He would be the first to admit he was no expert on women’s behaviour or expectations of relationships, but even he knew Christina’s attitude was not the norm in this circumstance. Where was the clinging presumption and demands for his time? Had he misread the situation that badly? Had he misread her?

“I’m not. Ordinarily,” he finally responded once he saw she was—as always—waiting patiently for him to catch up. “I'm here to see Harry.”

She picked up her sabre and took the seat next to him, dangling the weapon between her knees for a few seconds before responding. “I know. He warned me you'd be stopping by.”

Mycroft had no idea how to respond to that. She didn’t seem exactly _happy_ with his reply, which he imagined she would have been if she’d expected some sort of declaration. There was something surreal about the situation; it seemed off-kilter, but he couldn’t put his finger on the cause. Until he did.

Everything about his “relationship” with Christina seemed unreal. Now that he saw it, it all made sense: the timing and circumstances of their meeting, how she’d just gone along with his every suggestion, how she made no demands on him that he couldn’t meet, how she’d overlooked his inadequacies, how she’d been willing, without judgement, to take the lead in the physical aspects of the relationship.

There was no way her desires could be so naturally in alignment with his; she was playing him false in some way, for some reason. Mycroft dismissed out of hand the possibility that she might be working for Rudy. His uncle would never select someone like Christina to attract Mycroft; she seemed such an illogical choice from anyone else’s viewpoint. Someone like Amanda (or some minion of Rudy’s pretending to be someone like Amanda) would make more sense.

Or was he making a mountain out of a molehill? Perhaps Christina wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. Perhaps she was just looking for some temporary companionship, with no strings attached. Perhaps she had a fetish for socially awkward, emotionally detached sort-of-virgins. It was foolish of him to be making judgements with incomplete data. Then he realised: if she were working under the direction of someone else, she'd be going out of her way to draw him to her, not hold him off as she seemed to be.

He admitted to himself he was inching perilously close to paranoia, but had his deduction been incorrect? While Mycroft refused to accept chance as a factor in his life, perhaps he’d been hasty in his judgement. Or did he just not want to accept that someone else other than his uncle was manipulating him as well? On the other hand, would accepting Christina’s entry into his life as a coincidence be more palatable? He couldn’t decide, and his uncertainty unnerved him. 

He glanced over to her and she seemed lost in thought, staring at the tip of her sabre resting on top of her foot.

“You’re going to damage the sensor.”

“No, I’m not,” she replied offhandedly. A moment later she seemed to come back to herself, took a deep breath, and stood again, as if she were about to leave. “We should have dinner this week. How about tomorrow?”

Mycroft looked up at her, startled by the change of subject and the shift in tone to her usual bluff bemusement.

“Mycroft,” he heard behind him, and he turned to see Harry approach from the dressing rooms.

Mycroft glanced to Christina, then back to his friend. “Harry.”

“I’m off,” Christina said to them both, before turning back to Mycroft. “Friday?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied in similar tones of false, off-hand affection.

Mycroft watched Christina say her good-byes to Harry and depart, then he turned to his friend. His heart sank a little at Harry’s obvious happiness with Mycroft and Christina’s “situation” and he knew he was in for at least ten minutes of kindly-intentioned privacy invasion before Harry would be willing to move on to more congenial subjects.

To Mycroft's relief, Harry left off the inquisition until they were settled in to the restaurant. After handing their menus to the waiter, Harry finally released the stopcock on the flow of questions he'd been holding back.

“So. How long has that been going on?”

Mycroft his his initial grimace at Harry's obvious delight. “About a month.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“I wouldn't want you to be indiscreet—”

“But you'd like me to be indiscreet,” Mycroft replied, making no effort to head off Harry's questions, knowing all efforts would be futile.

“Well, I'm not asking for _details_.”

“Good, because you're not getting any.” That came out sharper than Mycroft had intended and Harry's slightly hurt expression caused Mycroft to regret it. “There isn't much to tell.” Mycroft knew that viewed objectively Harry's curiosity was reasonable and as he'd expected it, getting shirty with the man was hardly fair. “We've met eleven times since our first date. Things have—progressed much as is usual, I suppose. Why? What did she say?”

“Oh, I haven't discussed it with her. I wouldn't want to pry.”

“So you think it's less appropriate to talk to her about her personal life than to talk to me about it behind her back?”

“I've never thought of you as someone who valued chivalry.”

“This is not so much chivalry as self-interest.”

“Ah, now _that_ is the Mycroft Holmes I know.”

Mycroft gave him a thin smile with a hint of veiled secrecy that he knew Harry would interpret as satisfaction at a successful conquest.

They each toyed with their wine for a minute or so, and Mycroft hoped that that would be the end of it. He wasn't happy that this sham was intruding into what little time he had with Harry.

“I'm glad you've finally found someone,” Harry resumed and Mycroft waited for the other shoe to drop. “Someone appropriate.”

“Someone female, you mean.”

“That's not really my primary concern. And I don't appreciate the accusation it was.” 

Mycroft was surprised to see Harry genuinely miffed as he continued.

“I know you think I'm just an idiot—”

“No, I do not.” Mycroft interrupted. “And I'm sorry.” 

The apology wasn't enough to distract Harry from his mission, though. “I have to admit, I always assumed—”

“You and everyone else,” Mycroft grumbled.

“Well, considering your history up to now.”

“Three, Harry. Three times, and one of them nothing but drunken folly with no relevance to my life _at all_.”

To Mycroft's surprise, Harry was unconvinced. “As a soldier I've witnessed a lot more drunken folly than you can imagine, and it rarely does anything other than let people off the leash to do things they're ordinarily too afraid to do.”

Mycroft was far from thrilled at the implication he'd actually wanted David Rutherford to accost and clumsily fellate him in his mother's laundry room. “It is possible to be attracted to both men and women.”

“I know. And good thing for you, that.” Harry was attempting a joke but Mycroft questioned why his friend thought he needed to be jollied away from a subject Harry had insisted on bringing up himself. He recognised that it was likely because Harry was afraid Mycroft would take the conversation in the direction Harry wouldn't want to go: anything that might require him to acknowledge what Mycroft had known since they were at school together, that Harry had long been worried that Mycroft was in love with him. The matter had been hovering between them for years, and Mycroft had never seen any purpose in bringing it out into the open. He'd always told himself this was _not_ due to lack of nerve on his part, but a reluctance to jeopardise a friendship he valued. It wasn't as if he had any of those to spare.

So Mycroft left Harry to his misconceptions, which Mycroft reasoned were hardly a burden ordinarily. “When do you ship out?” he asked, steering the conversation into shallower waters.

“Second week of January.” Harry's relief at having dodged the old bullet again was a little dismaying, but Mycroft acknowledged it would likely always have to be. The greatest surprise was that he could still be saddened by that thin but unbreachable boundary between them.

~ + ~

For New Year's Eve, Christina cooked for him. Once he'd got over the discomfiting domesticity of watching her in her dormitory's kitchen, Mycroft noticed that she was more relaxed than she'd been since before—_it_ happened. He assumed that a repeat performance was on the cards and wondered if he should bolt first thing in the morning, as she had. Or perhaps just return to his hotel and the familiar comfort of a bed to himself once they were done.

Four hours later, tired, sated, and still slightly euphoric, he watched her light a cigarette and take her usual perch by the open window. Mycroft forgoed the pleasure for huddling under the duvet to escape the sharp winter air she was letting in, which she seemed immune to. There had been surprisingly little conversation all evening; Mycroft assumed that Christina might be having as much difficulty getting her head around their “relationship” as he did, though of course for different reasons.

“How long are you at the hotel?” She eventually asked, still staring out the window.

“Until the 10th.”

“That's generous of your uncle, putting you up like that.”

“I was supposed to be staying with him in London for a week, but he had to go to Paris.”

She must have heard the disappointment in his tone. “London's hardly the far side of the moon, you know. Go up for the day. Go shopping. Go to a show.”

“Would you like to come with me?”

That question seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised him that he'd offered. “Uh—yeah, sure. How about Saturday? We could swing by the Tower and surprise Harry.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Perhaps we should call first. But yes, Saturday. What would you like to do?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Why don't you show me where you would go if you were on your own.”

Mycroft instinctively recoiled at the idea of sharing anything he valued with her; once this was all over he'd hardly want his favourite places tainted by association with this escapade. “You'd probably think them boring.”

“Why? I don't think you're boring.” Again, her candour stopped him in his tracks, until she spoke again. “Unless you want to keep them to yourself. And that's okay; I was just curious about what you'd find interesting.”

“Curiosity—can be dangerous.” He tried for teasing, but her thin smile lasted only a moment.

“Yeah, me and my dangerous curiosity,” she mused and Mycroft could tell she was thinking about something other than them. Suddenly, the bell towers across Oxford began to toll midnight. Christina turned her attention back to him and something on his face made her ask, “What?”

“I just realised I've never heard that—” He waved towards the window. “I've never been here for New Year's before; I'm usually at home.”

Christina stubbed out her cigarette, exhaled her last puff out the window, then closed it.

“New year, new life.”

“I suppose.” Though, Mycroft hardly expected the turning of the year would make much difference in his life.

“Any resolutions?”

“Not any particular to this day or year. You?”

“The same.” She paused for a few seconds and Mycroft began to chafe under not exactly unfriendly but still rather penetrating examination. “To make this year better than last year,” she added. “Better start already.”

Now Mycroft was genuinely uncomfortable; was this the prelude to the declaration he'd been expecting the day before? “Why?”

“New place. New life.”

Mycroft could tell she saw his relief and was amused by it. Perhaps his assumptions had been a _bit_ presumptuous.

“How is it better than the old place and the old life?”

The question obviously posed an unexpected conundrum, as Christina gave the matter some thought before replying. “I have a theory.”

“Oh?”

She gave him a mildly admonishing look that he took in his stride as she continued. “That you should always start the year the way you mean to go on. Not in an obvious way,” she added at his accidentally unleashed consternation at the idea that _they_ were part of her plans for the year. “Who you spend the new year with will be important to you in the year in some way. Maybe not in the way you'll expect.”

“How do—”

“Who knows? But it won't be what you're thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“No idea. It doesn't matter what you're _thinking_ anyway.”

She climbed down from her perch; Mycroft lifted the edge of the duvet for her as she returned to bed, shivering. Ignoring the thoughts grinding away in the back of his mind like a rusty key, he proceeded to help her get warm again.

Over the course of the following week, the two of them settled into a routine. During the day they largely kept to themselves, each working on their own projects until the middle of the afternoon. Mycroft learned that Christina ran in the mornings—the reason why she was up and about so early—so she usually accomplished more than he did before they met in the late afternoon. Sometimes they retired to his room for sex before dinner. Sometimes they met for coffee and talked: economic theory, politics, current events. Sometimes they went out to dinner and sometimes Christina cooked for him in the kitchen of her dorm. 

On the Thursday evening, Mycroft was watching Christina make lamb stew. They'd enjoyed a quiet, lazy afternoon in her bed and she was obviously feeling domestic. One part of Mycroft's mind speculated on whether or not he should worry about this and the other told the first part to shut up. These recreational spasms of domesticity demonstrated she was bedding down into the “relationship”, which was all good for his plan. Besides, she was a good cook and he was hungry.

While he watched, amused by this entirely unforeseen twist, another man joined them. He was familiar looking, but Mycroft couldn't place him. He assumed he'd seen him on one of his previous visits to Nuffield. The familiarity of the man's greetings with Christina gave Mycroft a jolt. The man was obviously a friend of hers; why didn't he know who the man was? Why had he not bothered to identify and gather background on her other associates? This was just the kind of sloppiness that Rudy legitimately berated him for, and if his uncle ever even suspected such laxity on Mycroft's part, the man would blow a gasket.

Christina turned and glanced between them. She made a vague wave as she turned back to the hob. “Mark, Mycroft; Mycroft, Mark.”

The other man only nodded an acknowledgement from the doorway, and Mycroft did the same. After a second or two, Mark ambled over to the coffeemaker on the counter and while he proceeded to make coffee, engaged Christina in a conversation about what Mycroft thought might be ice hockey. In self defence, he retreated back into his own thoughts until it was over. A minute or so later, Christina joined him at the small table.

Once she'd settled in next to Mycroft, Christina continued her idle chitchat with Mark. Mycroft paid little attention, distracted by her hand resting on the inside of his thigh, just above the knee. They rarely touched in front of other people, and he wondered if she thought he needed some sort of reassurance. He concentrated on whether he should be amused or dismayed in order to address his growing arousal.

When Mark joined them at the table, Mycroft tried to interpret the look the other man gave them as he drank his coffee, but was unsure what it meant other than open curiosity. Mycroft realised he had to develop his skills at reading people; his future work would depend on his ability to discern the thoughts of others and knowing how to read faces was essential. Not for the first time, he cursed the isolation of his childhood at Musgrave; it was not unknown for him to feel at a complete loss with people simply because he didn't have enough experience interpreting the unspoken social codes that formed the foundation of how ordinary people communicated. And then there was the boredom. That would be difficult to master.

Christina was entertaining her classmate with one of her rants about someone—another student at their college, perhaps—that didn't interest him, so he took the opportunity to use them as a training exercise in observation, taking advantage of the fact they were paying no attention to him.

Mark appeared to be a few years older than Mycroft and Christina. Though he appeared to have been born with a naturally solemn expression that might make him appear older than he was. Christina seemed more relaxed than she normally was with Mycroft, which perplexed him until he realised from his accent that Mark was also Canadian. A few references in their conversation flew over Mycroft's head, but it was clear to him that Mark was a reasonably clever but ordinary young man who exhibited the amused but perplexed response to Christina that Mycroft had observed in a few others. On Christina's part, while she was even more overtly opinionated with her countryman than Mycroft was accustomed to and while he would be the first to admit he was an amateur in interpreting the finer points of heterosexual courtship, it was obvious that while his two companions demonstrated a degree of mutual affection, they possessed not a whit of romantic interest in each other. 

As the conversation across the table progressed, it became more difficult to follow and Mycroft assumed that it was descending into Canadian idiom. The accents of both his companions began to shift subtly into what Mycroft assumed was the manners of speech they were born with and put aside in their interactions with the English and others around them. This fact alone was revealing and Mycroft realised that he had always assumed that the Christina he knew was the true her. But of course she had to adjust—her speech, her mannerisms, her cultural references—to accommodate the (to her) foreign culture she was currently living in. 

While the other two spoke, ignoring him, Mycroft came to a realisation: there was an entire world he didn't know, sitting right in front of him. Inside Christina's head were experiences, language, cultural references, a world foreign to him, things he could never know about her unless she decided to share them. She'd had her own life; from what he could discern now, it had been a full and complicated one. She hadn't erupted out of the ground like some science-fiction monster, solely for the benefit of Rudy's plan. She was a real person. And from what Mycroft saw so obviously now, an important element of who she was was an actress, performing a role she had devised for herself in order to hide her struggling, working class background. The light cast by the greater fullness of her true identity revealed the boundaries of the role, like the corona of the sun in eclipse, and Mycroft had to admit that if she hadn't revealed herself in this manner he likely would never have known the role wasn't her. It was a masterful performance and he couldn't help admiring her a little for it. 

It was a good object lesson: though Mycroft had long known that people display only a highly curated version of themselves to the world, for some the curated version could be so seamless, so apparently a whole person, that it appeared to be real. If Mycroft were to come close to fulfilling his potential in his future career, he must always have this fact at the forefront of his mind.

~ + ~

After a week and a half at the hotel, spending time with Christina most days, and forcing himself to work on papers only with the greatest difficulty, Mycroft was tired. For reasons he couldn't comprehend he found himself in an increasingly fractious and argumentative mood. He wanted to return to normality: his life in college, lectures, the structures he was accustomed to. His break had been moderately enjoyable and he acknowledged it had been useful to have Christina to distract him from the disaster that Christmas had been. But eventually he'd had to accept that that was what he'd been doing: using her as an excuse to avoid thinking about what had happened at Amberley. Despite his best effort to pretend he hadn't seen and heard what he had, his brain defied his intentions. To spite him, it had spent the last week churning away at the unwelcome new data in an effort to renovate the framework in which he placed his relationships with his parents and (to a lesser degree) his brother.

Mycroft discerned small signs (occasional lapses in tone, the odd questioning look when his attention was focused elsewhere) that Christina knew he was distracted. Even Harry had seen it when they had gone down to London to see him. But to Mycroft's relief, neither of them had said anything and as long as they were content to remain silent, he was equally content to let things lie.

Rudy, however, was going to be a different matter entirely. 

As the first week of the new year turned to the second, Mycroft's low-level anxiety began to creep up a little every day, in anticipation of his uncle's return to England and Mycroft's eventual summoning. The day he left the hotel and returned to Merton—newly re-opened for Hilary term—Rudy called and arranged to meet for lunch in two days.

When he arrived at the restaurant, Mycroft was surprised that he was genuinely wary of seeing his uncle. Anxiety and anticipation were normal, but this _dread_ was unprecedented and Mycroft didn't know what was causing it. Did he really believe Rudy would be dissatisfied with Mycroft's progress? Logically that idea was ludicrous; Mycroft had accomplished exactly what his uncle had ordered him to do.

By the time he'd crossed the room and was seated across from the man, Mycroft had managed to collect himself somewhat. He was glad to see that at least Rudy seemed to be in a decent mood.

“How was your little holiday?” Mycroft asked, hoping Rudy would waste some of their allotted time on inconsequential personal business.

“Fine.”

“Get up to anything disreputable?” At Rudy's consternation, Mycroft added, “I understand that's traditional for Paris interludes.”

“In the _1920s_, perhaps.”

Rudy's disdain stung a little. “So, where do people go these days to indulge their predilections?”

Rudy narrowed his eyes for a moment and while he waited Mycroft made odds on whether or not his uncle would reply.

The expression on Rudy's face reflected the words at the back of Mycroft's mind: why are you asking about this of all topics? Mycroft kept his own expression bland, neutral inquiry. If nothing else, his uncle should at least be able to give him credit for that.

“Planning your next vacation?” Rudy eventually asked, his own bland, neutral face finally making an appearance.

“Just making conversation, uncle.”

“Is this your roundabout way of telling me you've failed with the Martin girl?”

“No.” Mycroft knew he sounded smug, but all things considered he thought that was fair, in light of Rudy's obvious expectation that he would have failed.

“Are you willing to admit now that I was right to send you back when I did?”

“It would have happened eventually.”

“What makes you think she'd have waited for you to get off your arse and act? Women these days are hardly known for their patience.”

“And you think occasionally kitting yourself out in a frock gives you special insight into how women's minds work?”

“We never did have the chance to properly discuss what happened at Amberley.”

_So it's to be drawn pistols at luncheon_, Mycroft mused. But then, he had to acknowledge that he'd drawn first, so had no right to complain.

“Or we could talk about your girlfriend,” Rudy added.

“Ah, the choice between Scylla and Charybdis,” Mycroft replied in an effort to lighten the mood a little.

The momentary hint of a smile from his uncle recognised Mycroft's efforts, but he knew he could no longer dodge both matters. So with an internal sigh he chose the least of the two evils presented to him. “Did you know that Christina was doing her thesis on econometrics?”

~ + ~


	6. Lies and secrets and plots (oh, my!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family crisis distracts Mycroft from The Plan.

To Mycroft's surprise there were no immediate consequences to his failure to exercise due restraint with his uncle. The first three weeks of term were characterised by a significant up-tick in activity as the push to exams began. He was well-prepared already, and looked on with an entirely justified smugness as his classmates indulged in panic as almost three years of procrastination came home to roost.

Mycroft threw himself back into the weekly grind of the final months of his program almost with a sense of relief. Christina's academic schedule apparently had escalated since the Christmas break, as well, and it seemed to Mycroft that he spent more time watching her staring at her computer screen and entering data into massive spreadsheets than they did engaged in more physical pursuits. By the end of the month both of them were increasingly cranky, and after a tense standoff in her bedroom followed by a near-frantic coupling, Christina admitted that she needed to make an effort to give a little more time to Mycroft and less to her datasets.

To Mycroft's relief, he was largely able to detour the majority of his brain's sproadic forays into thoughts on family matters. Ordinarily, he'd be able to leave it to its own devices, churning away in the background until it came up with a completed assessment and appropriate reaction to the new data, but recent events had him doubting his usual methods. He knew he should be more actively interested in Sherlock's wellbeing, at least. But his parents? 

Much as Mycroft hated to accept it, as long as Sherlock was dependent on their parents for at least part of the year, he would have to find a way to deal with them to some degree, no matter that he never wanted to see them again. Perhaps—some time in the future—he might be able to forgive his father for throwing his eldest child over in an effort to keep the peace with his delusional, narcissistic wife, but Mycroft didn't foresee that happening any time soon.

Of course, as soon as Mycroft had resolved to be firm with himself and tuck away all familial concerns for the duration of the term, they insisted on forcing themselves back to the centre of his life.

Early in the morning on the first Sunday in February, Mycroft was rousted out of bed by one of the college porters; his father was on the telephone, insisting Mycroft speak to him immediately. Grumbling as he dressed, Mycroft didn't dare hope his mother had been run over by one of the village farmers with a combine harvester (it was the wrong time of the year for it), or kidnapped for a ridiculous ransom (even if kidnapping was always in season). She would never allow anything as mundane as a stroke or heart attack touch her, so Mycroft knew the “emergency” couldn't be about his mother. It had to be Sherlock.

“My god, Mike, good,” his father almost shouted as soon as Mycroft made his presence on the line known.

“Ask him if Sherlock's there,” his mother ordered and Mycroft knew she was on the other phone; he was going to have to endure both of them.

“What is it, Mummy?” he couldn't help but grouse. The porter standing nearby was obviously engaging all of his thirty or more years' worth of experience dealing with student melodrama in order to not roll his eyes.

“Don't you take that tone with me, Mycroft Holmes,” his mother snapped.

“Now, Margaret, perhaps I should—” his father answered in placating tones that were an aural flashback that Mycroft could do without. He barely managed to stop himself from putting the receiver down and returning to his bed while they wrangled over the telephone from within the same house.

“Mike? Are you still there?” his father asked.

“Yes.” _It's a close-run thing, though_.

“Sherlock's gone missing.”

“He's hiding somewhere on the school grounds and ducking classes again,” Mycroft corrected. “Hardly the same thing.”

“Is he with you?” his mother interjected again.

“Obviously not or I'd have said already,” Mycroft snapped back.

“Oh, for—Tom you deal with him. I've had enough.”

Mycroft heard a click on the line and knew his mother had charged off on one of the huffs she invariable indulged in whenever someone refused to kowtow to her.

“Mike—”

“No, Sherlock isn't with me.”

There was only silence from the other end of the line for five seconds or so, likely as his father decided whether or not to try to play peacemaker between Mycroft and his mother before addressing the matter in hand. Eventually, Mycroft became bored and knowing the sooner he prompted his father the sooner he could go back to bed.

“What happened?”

“Sherlock's been missing since at least yesterday morning.”

“Meaning no one's _seen_ him; that doesn't mean anything.” 

“They did a search this morning—”

_A slapdash, half-hearted search for form's sake only_, Mycroft mused as his father droned on.

“When they moved on to the town, they found he'd been seen boarding a bus yesterday afternoon.”

“A bus to where?”

“They don't know; possibly Swindon, possibly Bedwin or Reading.”

Mycroft ignored the possible implications of both those choices. “Are the half-wits at the school more concerned that they've lost him or that they might find him?”

“You know I don't always agree with your mother—”

_Oh, yes, father, you're so widely known for your independent thought and deed._

“—on everything. But you are in a particularly obnoxious mood this morning. Has Sherlock contacted you?”

“No. Have you called Rudy?”

“You know I can't do that.”

“So you're expecting me to do it for you.” _ It's illuminating to discover that even worries about Sherlock's safety are less important to you than Mummy's ego_.

“That's not why I called. But if you could—”

“Of course. I'll have him call you if he finds anything.”

“Mycroft—”

“Fine. I'll play go-between.” _For the geriatric infants._

“Thank you.”

Mycroft was surprised at the sharpness in his father's tone, considering he was—as usual—handing off his parental responsibilities. “You're welcome,” he replied through tightly-clenched teeth, then rang off.

He glanced at the porters clock hanging near the window overlooking the college gates. There was little chance Rudy would be amenable to a call anywhere near this early on a Sunday morning, so after thanking the porter and apologising for his parents bothering the man unnecessarily, Mycroft made his way back to his room. He had an hour or so to kill before he should even try to contact his uncle; he wondered if Sherlock would show up before then and save everyone a lot of trouble. But that raised the question: where had his brother spent the night?

While one of the many streams of consciousness constantly flowing through Mycroft's mind was a simmering, low-level concern for his little brother, he was rarely actively worried about him. As Mycroft booted up his computer with the idea of getting some work done, he recognised it would probably be best to speak to Rudy before upgrading the status of his concerns to anxiety. 

When Mycroft did finally manage to get in contact with his uncle, Rudy was dismissive.

“Let your parents deal with your brother, boy. He's their responsibility, not yours.”

“But they're hopeless.”

“Yes, they are. But they're his parents, and you've let them get away with shirking for too long. Think of it this way: in the future you cannot let them take up all your time or you'll never get anywhere. Margaret will suck up every moment of your life if you let her, and she'd still berate you for not doing enough.”

_Or hate you forever for doing what any sensible adult would know needed to be done_. “Shall I leave it to you to tell them, then?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I'd bet that father might be willing to come to the phone if you were to call—”

“I know your mother has put you in an inexcusable position; she's never forgiven me for doing what she didn't have the spine to do herself, and eventually she's going to put you in the same position. And for years you've been paying the price—the one person who could be said to be blameless for that whole sorry state of affairs.”

_That's because according to Mummy I'm not_, Mycroft almost said, but he knew that comment would take the conversation places he wasn't ready to go yet. And he didn't want Rudy thinking he was angling for pity, the greatest of all cardinal sins in his uncle's books. “Has Sherlock been in contact with you lately?” he asked instead.

“He's never contacted me. Ever.”

“Supposedly, he boarded a a bus at Marlborough yesterday afternoon; there's been neither hide nor hair of him since.”

“Well, I've heard nothing. Where was he headed?”

“No one seems to know.”

“Well, there's only so many possibilities. Assuming—” Rudy trailed off for a few seconds before continuing, “I suppose we shouldn't assume anything, but no boy his age—not even Sherlock—is exactly replete with resources, so I think we can assume he's heading to someone he knows.” Mycroft could tell his uncle was becoming interested in the puzzle, even if he wasn't overly interested in its subject. “Where would he have stayed last night?”

“The question on everyone's mind. I'm not sure we should make assumptions about his final destination.”

“If he hasn't made contact with you, who else could he go to,” Rudy mused.

He hadn't posed it as a question, so Mycroft made no effort to answer. He sensed that having had his interest piqued, Rudy might be willing to invest some time and resources into solving their little puzzle, at which point Mycroft could put it aside until they at least had an idea where they should start looking. “Is there anything you could do at your end? It would help if we knew even what direction he headed.”

Rudy's only reply was a thoughtful little hum and Mycroft wondered if he were trying to decide if Mycroft would be required to provide something in exchange for the effort, or if Rudy were contemplating taking the matter on solely to satisfy his own curiosity.

“I can speak to someone at the transport police. It might take some time, but if he was heading for a station, he'd show up on the CCTV. If we assume that, we have only two or three stations to check.”

“Thank you, uncle. It would help narrow things down.”

“He'll most likely crop up before I have an answer, but—” Rudy trailed off again and Mycroft suspected he had just given one of his little shrugs.

“I'll call immediately if I hear from him.” 

They each rang off and Mycroft returned to his room more agitated than he'd been before the conversation with his uncle. For the next hour he was unable to settle at anything as his mind spun out increasingly gothic scenarios of what Sherlock might have been up to for the last day and a half (or more).

To distract himself, Mycroft escaped to the college library; as it was early in the term (and still early in the morning) it was largely empty and, to his relief, he was able to secure his favourite spot among the obsolete medievalists. He knew Rudy wouldn't have any news for at least a few hours, so he diverted himself by pulling random books off nearby shelves, opening them to random pages and reading, making his way from the battle of Stamford Bridge to the Lollard Movement to the founding of the London Bakers' Guild to the Third Crusade. The current uselessness of the information appealed to his magpie brain and more than anything it was the process of dicing it up, categorising it, and finding homes for it within the architecture of his internal storage facility that made it a highly effective distraction.

When his stomach told him it was lunchtime he stopped, surprised at how the time had seemed to pass so quickly. He was even more surprised that no one had bothered him. Once he acknowledged that, he realised he'd been unconsciously dreading running into Amanda Fitzhugh, who would have politely grilled him about his Christmas break.

After lunch he returned to his room and was surprised to see a note on his door: a message from a neighbour that he was to phone his uncle.

It took three attempts to reach the man, and when Mycroft did, Rudy opened with, “He's probably in Oxford.”

“Oh? How do—” 

“CCTV at Swindon station and at Didcot. They lost him there, but the only reasonable conclusion is that he was on his way to London or Oxford. And it's more likely he'd be able to dodge the cameras at Oxford station than at Paddington.”

“And I'm here.”

“And you're there. Unfortunately there aren't enough cameras in Oxford to give anything close to full coverage, especially outside the tourist areas.”

Mycroft gave a moment's thought to the geography of the town and colleges and almost instantly came up with four routes from the station to Merton that avoided the centre of town and the CCTV concentrated there.

“If he's there, why do you think he hasn't been in touch?” Rudy asked, breaking into Mycroft mental mapping.

“God, why does Sherlock do anything?” Mycroft was suddenly very tired, but he knew he had to soldier on if he were to find his brother. Assuming, of course, that Sherlock wanted to be found, a matter still very much in the air considering what they knew.

“Where are you going to start looking?”

Mycroft wanted to throw his hands up, but didn't. “At this time of year his options for sleeping quarters without money or being discovered are limited; I'll start with that.”

“Seems a reasonable idea. Let me know what you find. Call me this evening, even if there's no news.”

Mycroft knew his shocked silence spoke eloquently of what he thought of that statement.

“I know you think me uninterested in Sherlock, boy. But he's blood as much as you are, and while I have no _professional_ interest in him, I'm hardly sanguine about him coming to harm of any kind.”

Rudy's final words tweaked something at the back of Mycroft's mind that he roughly dismissed out of hand. “Until tonight, then,” Mycroft said, then rang off.

Returning to his room, he made a beeline for his desk, where he dug into the bottom drawer until he excavated his map of the entire town of Oxford, depicting the layers of ordinariness that encircled the quasi-magical heart of the town, like the battlements of a fortress. Car parks, regional distribution warehouses, suburban supermarkets and shopping centres, B-class office blocks, car dealerships, motorways, tract housing and estates: the guts of the body that generated the lifeblood that supported the colleges that formed its heart and mind.

Mycroft grabbed a pencil and began tracing probable routes Sherlock might have taken from the station, based on the assumption he was heading for Merton. Then Mycroft focused his attention on the question of the moment, which lead to another question: why assume Sherlock was coming to him? With a start, he leapt to his feet and scurried back to the telephone down the corridor from his room and called Christina.

“I have a strange question for you.”

“Okay.” She sounded chagrined but curious.

“Have you been out today?”

“Yeah, I went for my run, same as usual.”

“When?”

“About 7:30, I guess.”

Mycroft shuddered at the thought. “Did you see anyone you thought might be following you or paying any particular attention to you?”

There was a pause of a few seconds and Mycroft silently blessed her for taking the question seriously and thinking about her answer instead of wasting time on demanding to know why he was asking.

“No, I don't think so. I don't pay much attention to people when I run, to be honest. I'm mostly looking out for bikes and cars. You have someone in mind?”

“My brother is missing and we suspect he might be in Oxford.” Mycroft hadn't wanted to tell her, but he needed an excuse to give her Sherlock's description and ask if she'd seen him.

Again, she showed herself reasonably astute by not asking why he thought Sherlock might be following her; instead she followed up with, “What does he look like?”

“He's just turned fifteen. About five foot seven. Eight, maybe, now. Thin. Curly black hair, grey eyes. He doesn't look like me.”

“Not you is a pretty wide scope of possibilities—”

“Think Michelangelo's David at fifteen years old. Somewhat underfed.”

“Okay, definitely not like you, then. No insult intended,” she replied with a smirk he could hear. “Sorry,” she added.

“None taken.” He paused and wondered if he should be concerned by her equanimity over the whole Sherlock matter, then brushed his concerns aside. “If you see anyone—”

“Give me a minute.”

Mycroft waited; for more than a minute there was nothing from her other than the occasional _hmm_ and _urgh_ that made it seem as if her brain were a steam-powered supercomputer.

“Oxford Botanic Garden,” she eventually said, slowly, as if she were trying to be careful not to dislodge a tenuous thread of fugitive memory.

“What?”

“Near the bridge, Magdalen Bridge, just past the Botanic Garden.”

“You're sure?” Mycroft refused to hope, and Sherlock being seen by Christina seemed too much of a coincidence.

“How sure do you want me to be? Jesus, not everyone has an eiditic memory, you know.”

“I'm sorry—”

“And you're welcome.”

Mycroft fumed at her sarcasm. “Yes, _thank you_. If he makes any attempt to contact you or if you see him again, leave me a message at the porter's lodge; it's much more likely to actually get to me than calling this number.”

“Why would he contact me?”

“I have no idea. I have no idea why he left school, or why he's in Oxford, if he even is. Why he hasn't contacted me—”

“Okay, okay. He's okay, Mycroft. Just—if it was him, he seemed fine, just sitting there on a bench. He's okay, all right?” Mycroft was surprised again, this time by how quickly she backed down from snippy to sympathetic concern, trying and failing to reassure him. 

But he was wasting time; as he had no other leads to follow, and the Botanic Garden was on the way to one of the neighbourhoods Mycroft had identified as worthy of investigating, he thought he might as well start there.

Ten minutes later he was circling the grounds of the Botanic Garden, eyes keen for any sign of a building that might have acted as an overnight sanctuary, paying particular attention to the area around the Magdalen Bridge and the meadows along the Cherwell.

He saw a number of buildings that might be likely candidates, but they were too exposed or too well secured, or—like the college boathouses along the river—had too much activity to make an effective hiding place.

Mycroft continued on foot for another half an hour, zig-zagging into some of the back streets and eventually the residential areas gave way to the obvious perimeter of the town: offices, small instances of light industry, warehouses. None of them seemed promising until he followed a narrow road to where it ended at a chain-link fence surrounding a long, boarded-up building on the banks of the river. It was obvious that there were renovations planned at the site: supplies and construction equipment were tidily stacked at the far end of the empty parking lot.

The building looked to be an old warehouse; the only part that seemed to be in use was a small office area at the far end. Despite the prominent signage on the high chain-link fence declaring that the site was patrolled by security, there was an aura of neglect about it that stirred Mycroft's interest. He scouted along the fence, keeping an eye out for any sign it had been tampered with. 

Near the far north-west corner of the lot, the fencing had become separated from its support posts and drooped outward toward the street, in a spot out of sight of the office. There was a suspiciously convenient gap in the barbed wire that ran along the top edge of most of the fencing; Mycroft recognised that if even he could get over that fence, someone as nimble as Sherlock could in a moment. Mycroft took a long, careful look around; on one side of the property was one of he canals that paralleled the river, to the north was a construction site and on the other side of the road was a car lot. While the lights there would be on all night, it was unlikely they would extend very far across the street. Sherlock (or anyone else) could have easily been over the fence without being seen.

Not looking forward to making a fool of himself clambering over a partly-drooping chain-link fence, Mycroft sighed and got at it. It only took him a minute or so—the fence wasn't all that high—then he was striding across the cracked parking lot to the first loading bay at the back of the building. When he saw that the door had been carefully jimmied open, his heart quickened a little. 

The interior was mostly dark. The high afternoon sunlight barely made any inroads into the gloom, creating thin, irregular slats of weak winter light that spotlit small portions near the windows of the vast empty space. Mycroft forced himself to resist the temptation to run through the building shouting Sherlock's name, to remain quiet, to listen, to allow his eyes to adjust before leaping into the semi-darkness.

Mycroft heard only the cooing of pigeons up in the rafters. He paused for a few more seconds, then set off on a slow exploration of the perimeter of the space. On first sight it had seemed empty, but now he saw that there were regularly-spaced, oddly-neat piles of detritus: stacks of wooden crates and pallets, four forklifts neatly parked in a row. He continued on, trying to make as little noise as possible, in case his assumption about on-site security was wrong. Halfway around the room he began to feel a bit of a fool, becoming over-excited at the first real possibility he’d found. 

He was wasting time. More than ten minutes of it already, and he quickened his pace, forcing himself to finish before continuing his search elsewhere. There was nothing there, nothing that indicated anyone had been in the building recently and no sound other than the avian squatters, the faint tap of his brogues on the filthy concrete floor, and the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Mycroft approached the far end of the warehouse; there was a door and two boarded-up windows that obviously led into the office space. He almost didn’t bother continuing on, reasoning that anyone who might be hiding in the warehouse would have the sense to stay away, but for the sake of thoroughness he carried on. As he approached the far wall, though, to his surprise he saw a momentary flicker of light. During his cautious approach, he ran through all the possibilities of what could have caused it other than his brother squatting in a disused warehouse for no known reason.

He saw that the tiny gleam was the reflection of a flickering light—likely from a small candle—on the interior of one of the office windows. The source was hidden behind a stack of pallets, and Mycroft sidled up as silently as he could; the last thing he wanted was a confrontation with an angry tramp.

After he rounded the pallets, he stopped, stock still, as his mind abandoned him for a second or two. Everything seemed to stop: his feet, his brain, his ability to take in basic visual stimuli. When it returned, his first thought was: _I wish Harry were here; he’d know what to do_. Conflicting reactions warred in his brain before his feet gave up on it and took over. He ran towards the crumpled pile of boy on the floor and dropped to his knees beside him. 

Mycroft crouched near his brother’s head and to his relief it was as if the rational, problem-solving part of his mind said to the panicked, borderline-hysterical part: “Thank you; we’ll take it from here” and peremptorily removed his emotions from play. He watched, seemingly from a distance, as his hands checked Sherlock’s pulse (thready), breathing (shallow), and sought out any obvious injuries (none). Sherlock was shaking, so Mycroft pulled off his jacket and draped it over his brother. It was too dark to be able to discern anything else, but to Mycroft it was obvious from Sherlock’s condition and the gear on the floor nearby that Sherlock was out of his mind on drugs. Heroin, probably, the emotionless, metronomic voice at the back of mind provided and Mycroft suppressed the urge to sit up and scream the walls down, fear and anger again threatening to carry his reason away. 

He needed an ambulance. He needed to get Sherlock to hospital _now_. Then he realised: even if he could find his way to a working telephone, he hadn’t noticed the address of the building and doubted he could provide coherent instructions to the 999 operator.

“Sherlock. Sherlock,” he wheedled as he shook his brother’s shoulder. Other than a quiet groan there was no response and Mycroft forced back down the resurgent panic that hovered at the edges of his mind. 

_First things first. Telephone._ Mycroft knew the only place he was likely to find one was the office. To his complete lack of surprise, the door between the warehouse and the office was locked. The two adjacent windows had been boarded up, but only on the office side. A cursory glance around him revealed some boards, probably from a broken pallet. 

Swinging one of them with all his might, Mycroft just barely dodged the board ricocheting off the glass, which remained stubbornly whole. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he frantically sought something more solid. Then he remembered the massive workbench he’d seen at the far end of the warehouse. Completely unconcerned now about the noise he made, Mycroft sprinted back to the far end of the cavernous, echoing space and scrambled around the old workbench in the hunt for a suitable weapon.

On the shelf below the bench he found an enormous plumber’s wrench, almost a yard long and weighing at least five kilos. Mycroft hefted it on his shoulder and ran back to Sherlock. After checking if his brother was conscious (he wasn’t), Mycroft strode up to the nearest window, grappled with the wrench until he was grasping the end of the handle with both hands and swung it with all his might, face averted to avoid leaping glass fragments.

The crash was remarkably satisfying, and to Mycroft’s delight, his follow-through had partially-dislodged the board on the other side. After using the wrench to scrape away the remaining glass, Mycroft stacked some pallets against the wall, climbed up and was able to kick down the sheet of plywood blocking the window.

_Well, that should bring any security running_, he thought as the board boomed onto the office floor. Once he’d clambered through the window, he ran from desk to desk until he found a functioning telephone. Just as he was about to dial 999 he heard a pointed, “There something I can help you with?” behind him.

He started, turned, then stopped dead in his tracks. The security guard was a woman, very tall—almost as tall as him—very black, and based on her accent, very recently arrived from Antigua. Her expression was carefully neutral in a way that told him she knew she was in complete control of the situation, and while she wasn’t going to do anything rash, she sort of hoped he would because her day could do with some livening up.

“Uh—” was all he managed to say in reply.

“Yes?”

“Um. My brother—is—” Mycroft pointed at the window. “Ill.”

“Your brother the junkie’s been squatting since day before yesterday?”

Mycroft didn’t bother arguing her characterisation of Sherlock as a _junkie_, though he filed away the information that she’d known Sherlock was there and done nothing about it. He only nodded at her smile, which for some reason made him think of Viv Richards facing a low full toss from a rookie bowler toiling on a late-summer Taunton bunsen.

“He OD’ing?” she asked, calm as anything.

“Maybe? I—need to call an ambulance.”

She _hmm_-ed. “Yep. Prob'ly a good idea. I’ll just go open that gate, then.”

Relief flashed through Mycroft’s brain. “Thank you.” He resisted the urge to embarrass himself by genuflecting in recognition of the first moment of luck he’d had all day. He knew he sounded desperate enough, but reasoned that perhaps it was this desperation that might have moved her a little. She told him the address to give the 999 operator, then headed out the door.

Three minutes later, Mycroft clambered back through the window and was at Sherlock’s side again. There was no change other than, perhaps, that his breathing seemed shallower. He’d stopped shaking and Mycroft thought that a good thing until he remembered that that was likely a very bad thing under the circumstances.

Dismayed and a little disgusted with himself at his complete incompetence in this area, Mycroft had no idea what to do. He kept an ear cocked for the ambulance, but knew it would take at least ten minutes to arrive. While he waited he sat back and watched Sherlock, at the same time tearing through his own mental storage banks for anything he might have accidentally salted away that might help. He sat stone-still as he internally fumed at his feelings of powerlessness. There had to be something he could do other than bundle his little brother up and will him to keep breathing until someone else showed up to save him. But Mycroft came up with nothing. 

What he did not do was think about the context of why this might be happening. That was a rabbit hole he couldn’t afford to explore right now when his priority had to be keeping Sherlock alive.

“Ambulance coming.”

Mycroft jumped; the woman was remarkably quiet for someone her size. Then from down the road and through the office door he heard a siren approaching. Two minutes later the guard was escorting two paramedics into the warehouse.

Relief warred with self-disgust as Mycroft watched them work. He was useless: he couldn’t answer their most basic questions. No, he didn’t know what Sherlock had taken; no, he didn’t know when he’d taken it; and no, he didn’t know if this was the first time he’d done so. Instead of helping, Mycroft just hovered, moving out of the way whenever one of the paramedics asked him to.

According to Mycroft's watch, the drive to the hospital took just over eight (seemingly hours-long) minutes. The EMT driving just grunted at Mycroft's questions about what was going on in the back, and the man's blasé attitude did little to assuage Mycroft's anxiety. He tried to convince himself that Sherlock couldn't die now because he wasn't alone, that they would get him to the hospital on time, that the doctors would know what to do, that they'd be able to save him, that there'd be no permanent damage, that—everything would be fine. 

He failed. He tried again, and failed again.

Mycroft speculated that he should perhaps lower his sights and aim for just not panicking. That, at least, he had some control over.

~ + ~

When they arrived at their destination, Mycroft wasted an increasingly-frustrated ten minutes being bounced from one desk to another as he sought information about Sherlock. Eventually, a harassed-looking nurse took pity on him, perhaps thinking that giving him what he wanted would be faster than explaining to him why she wasn’t responsible for doing so, and took him into the treatment area and handed him over to one of the nurses there. 

To his relief, this one actually knew what was going on, and took him to his brother, who was being hooked up to a number of machines in a small cubicle near the nurses’ station. Sherlock was still unconscious and Mycroft wanted to break down at the sight of him, so young and frail, diminished by the machines and bureaucracy that enveloped him.

If Mycroft had felt extraneous to proceedings at the warehouse, now it was even more obvious how surplus to requirements he really was as people only acknowledged him to step around him and ask him to get out of the way.

When the senior nurse discovered who Mycroft was, he took him outside to the corridor and began a rote repeat of the questions the paramedics had asked, and Mycroft was still as unable to answer them. The nurse seemed nothing more than resigned at the lack of information and when Mycroft asked him, “Do you think it was heroin?” he replied, “Most likely. But it's obvious he took something else, as well. Cocaine, probably. We won't know until we get the lab results.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We can't give him anything until we know what he's taken beyond the heroin and cocaine—becoming very popular these days; speed-balling it's called. But there's something else there, too.”

“What?”

The nurse shrugged and Mycroft wanted to turn him upside down and shake him until a proper answer fell out. “Don't know. Something synthetic, maybe. Does he go to clubs?”

Mycroft was about to automatically say “No,” then realised he obviously knew nothing about what Sherlock got up to. “Not that I know of.”

“Does he know anyone with training in chemistry?”

Mycroft felt ice ripple down his spine. “Other than himself?” he replied, resigned. “You can't give him anything at all?”

“We can stabilise his blood pressure, get fluids into him, keep an eye out for any other reactions, but until we know what's in there—not until we get the results of the blood tests. Might take hours, if it's something exotic. And it'll likely have flushed itself out of his system by then.” The nurse obviously sensed Mycroft's frustration, but didn't address it.

The nurse asked Mycroft to remain outside until they had Sherlock stable, then left. Mycroft sat in a nearby chair and ignored the bustle around him while he pondered what the hell he was going to tell their parents. Reassuring himself that it was best to wait until he had some answers to their inevitable questions, he put the notion aside until it was unavoidable. 

For the next three hours Mycroft sat, first in the corridor, being ignored by the nurses and occasional resident or doctor that came and went from Sherlock's cubicle. He had nothing else to do other than to obsessively replay in his mind every interaction he'd had with his brother for the last year. Sherlock's strange, short visit in October seemed to make more sense. At least, Sherlock's agitation did. Or did it? Mycroft's brain felt as if it were tearing itself in two as he tried to figure out what he'd missed and just how culpable he was for Sherlock's current state. Had he been so wrong about the source of Sherlock's misery? Had Sherlock been trying to reach out to him about the drugs, or whatever it was that had caused him to believe drugs were a solution? 

Mycroft mentally shook himself: Sherlock wouldn't let something as mundane as unhappiness drive him to drugs. Curiosity and a stroppy rebellion against parental strictures were just as likely a cause. More so, perhaps. He sighed and sat back for a long wait.

Later, as traffic declined he moved the chair and himself inside. He wasn't sure which was worse: being outside and not knowing what was going on, or being inside and presented with the proof of just how desperate Sherlock's situation was.

At some point in the afternoon his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten for hours, but the superstition that if he left Something Would Happen kept him rooted in place until a nurse pointedly told him to take care of himself, get something to eat, get some rest. Get out of their way, he assumed she really meant.

In the late afternoon, traffic picked up as the lab results came back and another nurse took over. According to her, Sherlock was responding well to treatment, though he was still unconscious. Then Sherlock was finally moved from Casualty to a regular ward; Mycroft followed to ensure his brother was settled in, then finally capitulated to his own body's needs.

He was nauseous and lightheaded from not eating, sore from not moving, and miserable after hours of trying to figure out why he hadn't noticed at Christmas that Sherlock was harming himself. With the clarity of hindsight, it all seemed so obvious now (the mood swings, the secretiveness, the avoidance), but Mycroft knew that right now he needed to focus on the future, not the past, so paused the self-recriminations until he was beyond the next stage of proceedings: informing their parents.

He needed food and rest, but neither of those would be happening until he decided what and how he was going to tell them. Delaying the call had one benefit: it was likely too late for them to come up from Sussex that day. Mycroft had politely rebuffed the nurses' kind offers to call for him and by the third refusal he'd noticed they were wondering what was going on. Shesrlock was a minor and not legally under his care (_de facto_ parenting having no status under the law). Eventually, Mycroft realised the nurses thought he might have lied about being Sherlock's brother, and were speculating on the nature of their relationship. From that point he just lied to the staff, saying their parents were in France, and wouldn't arrive until the following day.

Mycroft knew that by the time he left the hospital and returned to Merton he would have missed dinner in hall, so he stopped off at the hospital cafeteria and bought a stale sandwich, which he ate in the back of the cab that took him home. To his surprise, there were two messages from Christina waiting for him, but nothing from his uncle. Mycroft supposed he should call both of them to let them know he'd found Sherlock, but he didn't have the energy or inclination to come up with a feasible lie for why Sherlock was in Oxford in the middle of the school term and why Mycroft himself had been incommunicado for five hours.

His parents were another matter entirely; he knew it would probably be best to lie to them, and he tried to find the energy to steel himself for what he knew would be his mother's reaction: that somehow all of this was Mycroft's fault. But after the day he'd had, the last thing he was in the mood for was this kind of test of his little remaining patience. 

Considering the list of tasks before him, he chose to start with the one he expected to be the least onerous: informing his uncle that Sherlock had been found, and to call off what (if any) resources were still in play at his end. To Mycroft's surprise, Rudy didn't pick up; he decided to leave a message and move on. “Rudy. Sherlock has been found. He's in hospital. Please call me in the morning if you're interested in the details.”

Looking back on it, Mycroft thought that message might be a bit on the sharp side, but it was too late to change it now. He moved on to Christina, but wasn't able to contact her, either.

Fuming a little, Mycroft stared down the empty corridor outside his dorm room, not at all looking forward to having the conversation with his parents in semi-public. To his chagrin, the person he was least interested in talking to was the one person who was available.

“Mummy—”

“Mikey! Have you found Sherlock? Your father and I—”

“Mummy, I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

“What? What's happened—”

“Mummy, can you get Father on the line as well? You both need to hear this.”

“What's happened? Is he all right?”

He sighed. “Can you please get Father.”

To his surprise, Mycroft heard the receiver at the other end clunk down without any further arguments. In the background he heard rustling, then his mother calling out “Tom! Mike is on the phone; he says he has news. Get on the extension.” Then there was a indistinct mumble that Mycroft assumed was his father, then the two of them having some sort of debate. He sighed again. Why could nothing ever be easy with his parents? Why were they always so obstreperous?

Eventually, his mother returned to the line. “Your father's off to the bedroom; he'll pick up in a minute.”

Mycroft didn't reply.

“So, what is going on? Is Sherlock all right?” She demanded again almost immediately.

“When Father is on the line I'll tell you.”

“Oh, for—”

“Hello, Mike!” his father's voice came down the line, drowning out his wife.

“Now will you tell us what's happened?”

“I found Sherlock in Oxford this morning. Well, near Oxford—”

“Found him? What does that mean? For god's sake, Mycroft, is my son all right?” his mother demanded.

“No, Mummy he is not all right,” Mycroft shot back. “And if you would stop interrupting I can tell you what's going on.”

“Mycroft, there's no reason to snap. We've been sick with worry all day,” his father jumped in.

_Well, then maybe you should have got off your lazy arses and done something about it instead of expecting me to do everything_, Mycroft desperately wanted to shout back, and only prevented himself by shutting up entirely for a few seconds.

“Mikey, what's happened to my little boy?” 

Mycroft could tell his mother was near tears, but he knew from long experience to not let them move him. “Sherlock is in hospital, here in Oxford. It appears he's been taking drugs for some time and he overdosed.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say! My son does _not_ do drugs,” his mother protested, just as Mycroft had expected she would.

“Come and see for yourself, Mummy. Or is that too much of an effort for you—”

“Mycroft, there's no call for—”

“He is in hospital. If you're unwilling to believe me, come here tomorrow and speak to his doctor." _And if I'd got there later, your other precious darling would be dead, Mummy, and you'd be left with just me. Give that a moment's thought, why don't you._

There was only silence from the other end of the line. Mycroft knew it was useless to try to convince his mother, in particular, of anything that ran counter to her preconceptions, so he knew the forthcoming battle would be a waste of his time. They had to see the situation for themselves.

“If you're unwilling to make the journey, you can call Doctor Jensen at the hospital—”

“Of course we'll come. Ridiculous boy—” his mother interjected.

“—she'll tell you of his condition. Now if you'll excuse me, it's been an all 'round shit day and I'm exhausted. I assume I'll see you at the hospital tomorrow. Good night,” he added before either of his parents could say anything else, then he rang off. 

The moment Mycroft admitted his exhaustion, the full force of it finally hit him. He slumped against the wall and covered his eyes with a shaking hand, momentarily almost overcome by the powerful mix of anxiety, relief at having found his little brother, fear of the implications of what Sherlock had obviously been doing for months, and a terrible emptiness that seemed to be swallowing him from the inside out. 

A few seconds later, as he pushed himself back upright, the phone rang. It probably was his father, to berate him for cutting them off, but in case it was Rudy he picked up.

“Hello.”

“Mycroft?”

“Oh, hello.” Mycroft supposed that Christina was an improvement over his father, but it was more important that he speak to Rudy.

“Were you talking to your parents? I wasn't out of my room two minutes and I called back right away.”

“Yes.”

“Is he all right?”

“Not really, no. I found him in an old warehouse by the river. He'd—he'd been taking drugs and—” Suddenly overcome with the magnitude of it all, Mycroft couldn't go on.

“Oh, god, I'm so sorry. Is he—jesus, I mean—”

“He's in hospital,” he mumbled as he slumped back against the wall.

“Okay. I guess that's—better—that's something. Do they know if he'll be okay?”

“They don't know. He was still unconscious when I left. The doctor said it was a close-run thing.”

There was no reply from the other end of the line for a few seconds and Mycroft assumed she didn't know what to say. At least she wasn't blathering platitudes about life and hope and destiny and like nonsense.

“Is there anything you need? Would you like me to come over?”

“No, why would I want that?”

There was another pause, but he could tell this one was of an entirely different character. “Okay. Are you going back to the hospital tomorrow?”

“Yes; I need to check in before my parents arrive. If they come.”

“Why wouldn't—actually, don't answer that question; I don't want to know.”

Mycroft felt a rush of relief; he was desperate to not discuss his family's dysfunction with her.

“Call me if you need anything. No, really, Mycroft. I know you like to think of yourself as Mr Invincible, but it's going to be really stressful until he's out of the hospital, and your parents are going to be freaked out, which is going to make things even hairier. So call me if there's anything I can do to help. Anything at all. Even if you just need a break for a couple of hours or someone to vent at.”

“Thank you. I will.” _Hell will freeze over before I let you near my family business_.

“You should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be worse, sorry to tell you.”

He let off a pained little chuckle. “You're probably right. And thank you for your help this morning. I—I don't think—”

“It's okay. We can talk about it later if you want.”

“All right.” Suddenly he felt loath to let her go, then recoiled at his own weakness. “Good night, Chris.”

There was a split-second pause before she replied, “Good night.” 

Mycroft spent the next two hours accomplishing nothing while his brain continued to whirl around a vortex centred on Sherlock. When he finally capitulated to his exhaustion and went to bed, he spent another two hours tossing and turning. Every time his exhausted body approached sleep, his rampant mind would bring to his attention another detail he should have noticed, another clue he missed, another failure on his part. Around midnight he recognised that he should have taken Christina up on her offer; at least she would have offered a distraction. But it was too late to change his mind, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't deserve the balm of relief from his pains. He'd earned every one of them, everything his mind dredged up, every rebuke, every reminder of his stupidity. 

Sherlock had reached out to him, twice, and Mycroft had either ignored him or driven him away with his obtuseness. He knew it wasn't his fault Sherlock was taking drugs, but he had was responsibile for not even recognising his brother was in distress. 

_But if that was the case, why had Sherlock come back to Oxford?_ the rational part of his mind observed, drowning out his melodramatic self-flagellation. Why had Sherlock come so far, only to stop just before his destination? What had turned him away at the last second? 

~ + ~

After a night of grossly inadequate sleep, Mycroft returned to the hospital. To his relief, Sherlock had regained consciousness late the previous evening, and was now fully awake. He was in the bed farthest from the entrance to the ward and the walk past the row of beds felt to Mycroft like what he imagined the march to the dock might feel like.

Despite the previous day’s ordeal, Sherlock seemed to be at his surly best, as the moment Mycroft rounded the half-drawn curtain and into view, Sherlock snapped, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Mycroft dropped into an adjacent chair. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh, you’re not going to claim anything self-serving, like that you saved my life—”

“Heavens, no. The paramedics and staff here saved your life. I just found you while there was still a life to save, you stupid, ungrateful little prick.”

Sherlock had nothing teed up to respond to that direct assault, so Mycroft continued. “How long have you been taking drugs?” He waited a few seconds for a reply he knew wouldn't come. “If you think Mummy’s going to accept silence in response to that question, you’re even more deluded that I give you credit for.” He paused. “Why did you come all the way to Oxford, only to hole up in an abandoned warehouse to overdose? Surely you could have found a more conveniently-located flophouse in which to try to kill yourself.”

“Fuck off, Mikey.” Sherlock rolled over, presenting his narrow, scrawny back to Mycroft, who had no interest in talking to his brother’s shoulder blades, which looked ready to rip through the rough cotton of his hospital pyjamas.

Mycroft paused to collect his thoughts. “You’re going to have to come up with an answer. For Mummy, at least. I expect they’ll be here in less than two hours, so I’d suggest you get cracking on a better response than ‘Fuck off’ to the not at all unreasonable inquiry as to how and when you started down this path and why you decided to throw your life away before it's even started.”

“So it’s to be the ‘tough love’ approach, is it?” Sherlock muttered into his pillow.

“I think you’ll discover before this is all over that nothing I’ve said could be categorised as particularly ‘tough’. _That_ you’ll get to experience soon enough.” _At least I hope so for your sake, little brother._

The moment the idea popped into his brain, though, Mycroft wondered if his parents would be able to bring themselves to do much more than scold Sherlock for his brainless, selfish, lazy, self-indulgent efforts to throw away everything he had in exchange for a momentary chemical thrill. “I’d appreciate an answer to at least one of my questions.”

“I’m sure you would. Doesn’t mean you’re going to get one.”

“You really think Mummy will just swoop in, clutch you to her bosom and forgive everything, don’t you?”

“I couldn’t care less what Mummy thinks or says or does. Nor do you.”

“She could always keep you home from school. Imagine what that would be like.”

“No she wouldn’t, and you know it.”

There was an edge of triumph in Sherlock’s tone that made Mycroft pause. “You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

“You’re not the only one who knows how to snoop, big brother.”

Mycroft felt his stomach curl in at the realisation his worst fears were true: Sherlock had overheard at least some of the conversations with and between their parents over Christmas. What else had he heard? Considering their mother’s lamentable lack of self-control, lord only knew what they might have revealed over those three weeks Sherlock was home for Christmas. If it wasn’t so obvious (now, in hindsight) that Sherlock had been taking drugs then, Mycroft might suspect that that was what was behind this extraordinary experiment with self-destruction his brother was currently running.

“People who eavesdrop rarely hear anything to their advantage, Sherlock.”

“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, _Mike_.” Sherlock paused for a second or two. “Have you and Mummy cooked up the Official Family Response yet? You’re here as the scouting party to—”

“I’ve barely spoken to her—”

“Got your stories coordinated? Organised your plan of attack for ‘dealing’ with me—”

“I understand paranoia is a common side-effect—”

“Shut up.”

“No, I will not ‘shut up’. I doubt very much that our parents—” Mycroft paused for an instant as Sherlock clutched his head and began to moan as if in agony, then he realised it was just a melodramatic sham and continued. “—will make any effort to try to make you see the sheer stupidity of what you’ve been doing—”

“You don’t get to lecture me—”

“You don’t like it? Get out of that bed, get dressed and walk out of this hospital under your own power. Are you capable of that?”

Sherlock’s only reply was to crawl out of bed, fumble at the door of the small bedside cabinet for a second or two, then collapse onto the floor with a long, quiet stream of breathy Anglo-Saxon expletives. Mycroft barely held back the defensive laugh caused by the shock of Sherlock’s distress, but when Sherlock turned over to try to stand again he obviously misinterpreted Mycroft’s expression.

“Glad to be able to provide you with a good gloat,” he muttered as he slowly pulled himself to a shaking crouch against the bed before attempting, one-handed, to pull on his trousers.

“Oh for—get back into bed before you crack your skull on the floor; as if the incipient organ failure isn’t enough of a statement.”

“Stop telling me what to do!” Sherlock shouted, face twisted with a sudden rage that knocked Mycroft back in his chair. He could only watch, stunned, as Sherlock crumpled onto the floor again, this time with a sob.

Frozen in place with shock, Mycroft felt the moment stretch infinitely into the future before snapping back into immediacy as his mind finally caught up to what he was seeing in front of him. He scuttled over to Sherlock and tried to lift his tightly coiled body back onto the bed.

“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me,” Sherlock pleaded under his breath, but Mycroft knew if he let go Sherlock would fall again. So he held on until he wrestled his brother back onto the bed, all the while wondering what in hell he was going to do once he got him there.

Once Sherlock was huddled under the blankets again, Mycroft stood back and waited for the adrenal surge of fear to pass before he risked saying anything else. Not that he had any idea what to say. There likely was nothing he could say to Sherlock in this state of mind that wouldn’t make things worse, but he had to at least try. “I don’t know what you want—”

“I want you to stop ‘managing’ me. You and Mummy—”

“You’re fifteen years old, Sherlock. There’s a reason why the law—”

Mycroft stopped as Sherlock groaned, as if the words themselves were causing him physical pain. He rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, and at the edge of Mycroft’s hearing began to chant again, “Shut up shut up shut up.”

“We’re only trying to do what’s best for you—”

“Lies, lies, lies. You and Mummy both, the biggest liars on earth, both of you. Lies and secrets and plots, that’s all either of you are good for, so just fuck off and leave me alone, Mike. I’m not listening to you anymore.”

“Fine. But I’m going to say what I came here to say, regardless.”

“Of course you are, you fatuous gasbag.”

“We only want what’s best for you. I don’t understand—”

“Finally! Mike Holmes admits there’s something he doesn’t understand! Oh my god—”

“Sarcasm: ‘humour’ for the desperate and unimaginative,” Mycroft noted with a pinched sigh. “Why can you not see we know what’s best for you?”

“What about what I think is best for me?”

“Like overdosing on heroin and cocaine? Is it really necessary—”

“Because I see through your little secrets and plots to try to make me behave like a good little boy.”

_None of our secrets could be considered in any way “small”, little brother_. 

“Even the idiots at Marlborough are in on it. ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother, Sherlock?’” he added with a simper and fake expression of confused concern Mycroft easily recognised as the Headmaster, Mr Phillips.

“Phillips is an inbred, borderline mental defective. But that’s no excuse for—this, whatever the hell you think you’re doing. Not that there appears to be much thinking—”

“Mummy only sent me there to get me out from under her feet. She only does sympathy at a distance—”

“You think you have to tell me that?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft, before slowly retreating back into his shell of blankets.

Mycroft waited for a minute or so before tentatively launching what he knew would be an even less-welcome subject. “The experimenting has to stop.” He paused to see if this would elicit any reaction, but Sherlock remained silent. “When you came in—the nurses weren’t able to treat you for hours. They didn’t know what you’d taken, and they—”

“I’ll make a list next time,” Sherlock muttered into the pillow.

“That’s hardly the solution.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Mycroft knew his brother was correct: he didn’t have any choice in this matter. He could hector Sherlock until he was out of breath and it would make no difference. Their father might even stir himself to try to guilt him into obedience, and that would make no difference. Their mother would cluck and chide and pet and that would also make no difference. Sherlock felt the need to lose himself, and Mycroft couldn’t help but think he knew why, even if Sherlock didn’t.

With a sigh, Mycroft stood; he made his (unacknowledged) good-byes and headed for the door. He’d said what he’d needed to say, and confirmed that Sherlock was—if not well, at least alive and having seemed to have avoided any significant physical consequences of his overdose. There was nothing more he could do until he’d given the matter some more thought and, perhaps in a few days, spoken to his father about it. 

Mycroft was about to leave when he remembered the question that had so stumped him the night before. He retraced his steps back to the end of the ward under the weight of a dozen curious stares. He stood at the foot of Sherlock's bed for a few seconds. “You still haven't answered my question.”

“So?”

“Why did you come all this way, then stop before your destination?”

“Why do you assume an abandoned warehouse on the Thames wasn't my destination?”

“Then why were you seen not 100 yards from Merton yesterday morning?” Mycroft's mind spun in the silence that greeted this revelation. “You saw her running by the college and—you assumed she and I—” He didn't know whether to interpret Sherlock's silence as consent or not until he saw a sharp little hitch of his brother's shoulders, almost a defensive hunch then recoil from it, as if knowing it would admit more than Sherlock wanted to.

“Sherlock—she is no threat to—anything. To our relationship. You'll always be my brother. You will always come first, if you need me.”

“Does she know that?”

“I don't believe her opinions on the matter are of any consequence.”

Sherlock didn't reply for a minute, during which Mycroft had to remind himself to breathe as he waited to see if Sherlock accepted this declaration. The strained silence was filled by a growing awareness of the sounds and smells of the ward: other patients, nurses and orderlies, trollies and wheelchairs, and the occasional over-loud crackle of the tannoy.

“Do you plan on spending more time in such—degrading circumstances?” Mycroft asked, attempting a new tack to his argument.

“She's not English, is she?”

Mycroft braced against the whiplash of Sherlock's tone. “No.”

“Please tell me you're not dating an _American_. Bad enough she's athletic.”

“No, she's not American.”

“Rhodes scholar?”

“Yes.” Mycroft ordinarily enjoyed their little games of deduction; this was one he'd have been glad to avoid, though.

“You're actually sleeping with her?”

Mycroft couldn't suppress a brief chuckle. “Yes, Sherlock, regardless of Mummy's delusions on the matter—”

Sherlock made an annoyed wave with the hand not tucked under his head. “I've always known you weren't gay.” 

“Of course.” Mycroft held back further comment on the ludicrousness of Sherlock, of all people, presenting himself as an authority on human sexuality.

“What's—no don't answer, I don't want to know.”

Now Mycroft let loose a mildly derisive snort. “You're avoiding the question again.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The question is, I know, well within your cognitive capabilities.”

“Ha bloody ha. Does your girlfriend flatter you by calling you a wit?”

“Far from it.” Mycroft was concerned at Sherlock's refusal to move the conversation on from Christina; though, it was always possible that she was the point, however much he hoped that wasn't true. “Why did you go back to the warehouse yesterday morning, after you saw—how did you know who she was?” Mycroft paused before answering his own question. “You saw us together the night before, when you came to me from the train station.” Mycroft berated himself for being so sloppy and distracted that he hadn't noticed being watched by his own brother.

Sherlock remained silent and Mycroft knew this silence was an admission he was correct.

“I will always be there when you need me, Sherlock.”

“I went back to wait for _her_ to disappear.”

Mycroft was surprised by Sherlock's vituperative tone, but thought it best to ignore it; now that Sherlock was finally talking he shouldn't be given another excuse to veer off topic with another dull debate about his attitude.

“And you decided to pass the time by finishing off the stash you’d acquired in London on your way here.”

“Nope. Bought it at school.”

“Plus what you made yourself during your night-time jaunts in the school chemistry labs,” Mycroft added, ensuring _his_ tone implied he was a little bit impressed despite himself. Sherlock had never been able to see clearly through a compliment to the real meaning behind it, so Mycroft wasn’t surprised to see his brother’s self-satisfied smirk in reply. It faded, though, on seeing Mycroft’s stony expression, and Sherlock rolled back over with a huff and a disgusted flick of the blankets.

“Well, brother, I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of our parents.” Mycroft glanced at his watch. “I expect you have less than an hour to devise some sort of cock-and-bull story that our mother would be willing to accept as even tangentially related to the truth.” He stepped away from the bed. “Take care, little brother. No, I mean that. You’re all Mummy has left.”

Without waiting for Sherlock to reply, Mycroft left before succumbing completely to melodrama. Waiting for the lift, to calm himself he went over the conversation and noted the inconsistencies in his brother’s story and more obvious flashpoints. After a couple of minutes, just as calm was returning to his mind, the lift arrived. But when the doors slid open, they revealed Christina about to stride out.

“Oh, good—” She said with a smile.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped back.

The doors started to close; not taking her eyes off Mycroft, Christina put out a hand to hold them open, in contrast to her expression, which had clapped shut at his admittedly regrettable words.

“You planning to use that lift?”

Mycroft turned to see an orderly pushing a frail, elderly woman in a bed. “Of course. My apologies,” he said as he stepped aside.

The orderly pushed the bed into the elevator and to Mycroft’s relief, Christina disappeared with the orderly and the elderly woman to where he did not care.

As the doors had slid closed, Christina’s expression had changed to considering and Mycroft hoped it meant she’d belatedly recognised just how inappropriate her unwanted intrusion into his family life was.

To his further relief, there was no sign of her in the lobby, or at the bus stop, or on the bus back into central Oxford. By the time he rounded the corner to the Merton gates he’d long moved past wondering why she’d shown up at the hospital to wondering what his parents’ response would be to Sherlock’s lies and in just what way Mycroft would be expected to pick up the pieces of this disaster.

So of course the first thing he saw was Christina leaning against the wall of the Porter’s Lodge, smoking and talking to Amanda Fitzhugh. He stopped, frozen in place at the prospect of the entire college knowing what Sherlock had done. The shock soon transformed into anger at Christina’s extraordinary gall at telling Amanda what had happened. Three seconds later, the two women noticed him and Mycroft examined their faces for any sign confirming his suspicions. Amanda gave him a cheery smile and a wave that spoke of either a degree of callousness exceptional even in the privately-educated grand-daughter of an earl, or a complete lack of knowledge of Mycroft’s most recent familial disaster. He could tell by Christina’s cocked eyebrow and rigid half-smile that she’d recognised what he’d been thinking. He admitted that his discomfort at having been caught out was entirely warranted, though it had only started to settle the jolt of panic elicited by seeing the two of them together.

Mycroft’s brain told his feet to move; they refused to even acknowledge receipt of the order. He was wondering if there was something amiss with his primary motor cortex, when he began a few halting steps in the women’s direction, and he could tell from Christina’s growing amusement that she was pleased at the effect of her second surprise of the day.

“How—” he started before Christina interrupted with, “How’s tricks?”

Mycroft gave her a slightly inquisitive look, which she ignored. _Ah, clever_, he thought when he realised what she was actually asking about. “Tricks are _fine_.”

“Good.”

Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft watched Amanda watching them and for some reason she seemed to find this little exchange amusing.

“Well, I’m glad your friend is okay,” she said to Christina.

“Yeah, me too. Though it would have been nice if he’d let me know he’d been discharged before we went all the way out to the hospital. Thanks again for the lift; that was—”

“Oh, it was no problem.” Amanda gave an embarrassed little shrug. She obviously interpreted the increasingly-tense silence between Mycroft and Christina as a plea for privacy, so she made her good-byes and ambled off into the college.

Mycroft turned to Christina, who was watching him.

“I don't think this is the place,” he said.

“No.”

Mycroft edged a step back toward Merton Street, and when she didn't object, continued.

When he glanced over to ensure she was following, Mycroft saw that her annoying bemusement had been replaced by a more believable stony stare. In a minor concession to sustaining the plan, he paused until she caught up.

The walk to Nuffield continued in a silence that became less comfortable with every passing minute. As they walked the corridor to her room, Mycroft wondered if he should open with an apology for having snapped at her at the hospital. He had more important things to worry about at the moment than her brused ego, but it wasn't in his interest to let her pique fester into anger.

They stood facing each other in the middle of her room, each waiting for the other to make the first move. After a minute she sighed and started them off. “I’d appreciate an explanation.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I specifically told you I didn’t want you to.”

“No, you didn’t. You rejected my offer of assistance.”

Mycroft paused, thrown onto the back foot by her unexpected 100 percent accuracy, then decided to ignore it. “But you came anyway?”

“Well, yes.” She hesitated just as she was about to continue, then had second thoughts about what he assumed would have been a snippy comeback. “Because, I don’t know, I’m your girlfriend, and providing support in a crisis is kind of part of the job.”

“The sarcasm is entirely unnecessary.”

“With you, it’s practically mandatory.”

_There it is_. “That’s—” Mycroft paused, again, flummoxed by his situation. He was grateful for her help, but—_but what_—the voice in the back of his mind said. 

“What were you afraid of, me meeting your brother, or your brother meeting me?” she asked with a forced calm that Mycroft sensed could presage a blow-out if he mis-handled the situation again.

“Neither.”

Liar, he almost heard her mind project. Instead she said, “Okay, you're stressed out, so I'm giving you the chance to explain all that.”

“Christina—I realise—” He sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to buy a few seconds to gather his resolve. “There are some things I need to keep private. Family things.” 

She stared back at him with a thrumming stillness akin to a transfixed cat waiting to leap on its prey the moment it breaks from cover.

“I am sorry I was rude at the hospital,” he conceded.

“Thank you.”

Mycroft perched on the edge of the bed and massaged his temples. His exhausted and overstretched mind spun out scenarios for getting out of this jam, but none seemed to end without Christina dumping him and it was simply too soon.

“Are your parents coming to see him?” she eventually asked. Mycroft glanced up from contemplating his shoes and his expression must have accidentally revealed something as her expression turned from rueful to something he couldn’t interpret. “Ah, that’s it. You didn’t want me to meet your _parents_. I get it now.” She nodded once. “Good to know.”

“Christina, I—”

“No, don’t apologise.” The ratcheting tightness in her voice belied her tone.

This was the last thing he was in the mood for after the two days he’d had: trying to figure out her motives and responses to the situation. He didn’t understand why she didn’t just put him out of his misery and cast him off. Any woman with a shred of self-respect would.

When he pulled himself up and looked back to her he saw no indication her position had changed. He wondered if he’d misjudged the time he’d spent thinking; it had felt like minutes but recognised that stress might be impairing his judgement of time.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” she replied with a careful evenness. _You said that already_ was easy to read on her face.

“You were right.” Her eyebrows flew up at the admission. “But not in the way you think.”

“Okay.” She seemed to be mentally perching on some sort of fence as she maintained carefully neutral tones, and Mycroft allowed himself to hope he’d crawled at least halfway out of his current hole. 

“My mother has certain—incorrect preconceptions about me.” He gave her a pointed look she pretended to not understand. “And I find it—currently to my advantage to allow her to keep them.”

To his relief—because he knew it meant he was at least part-way to being forgiven—Christina sat on the bed next to him. He didn’t interrupt as she stared blankly out the window, processing this new data.

“Why do you want your mother to think you’re gay? That's—weird.”

He couldn’t resist a morose chuckle. “Indeed. I think it validates her ego to believe herself generous for accepting my ‘predilection’.”

“And meeting me forces her to admit she’s wrong and you don’t want to deal with that for reasons I probably don’t care about.”

Mycroft’s mind frantically laid out the roadway of his story, barely ahead of his driving over it. “Something like that, yes.” His face tried to pretend swan-like grace in repose: superficially placid while his mind frantically paddeled below the surface.

She almost smiled. “Oh, I get it. The pieces start—your brother’s the favourite. That’s—you know, I’ve always assumed you were.”

“No.”

It was with a mix of relief and dread that Mycroft saw her latch onto this information. She had her “that’s very interesting, tell me more” face on and he knew she was spinning the new data out into new assumptions about him. It annoyed him to have had to reveal so much, but he mollified himself with the notion that in having done so he’d probably bought himself at least another two weeks. And if his calculations were correct, that should be enough to satisfy Rudy and anyone else picking over the irrelevant minutiae of his life.

~ + ~


	7. Fantasies of just letting go and damn the consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as the plan comes to fruition, Mycroft discovers its actual purpose.

Upon returning to Merton from his rather uncomfortable conversation with Christina, Mycroft discovered there was still no message awaiting him from Rudy. Wondering if this abysmal day was ever going to improve, he bucked himself up and called his uncle, not expecting him to be home. Mycroft wasn’t in the mood for a third sparring match in one day and reasoned that Rudy evidently wasn’t much interested in further details of Sherlock’s condition, so would be satisfied with another answer phone message.

To Mycroft’s consternation, his uncle picked up. 

“Oh, hello. I didn’t expect you to be home.”

“I had to pop back for some files. Five minutes later and you’d have missed me. How’s Sherlock?”

_Like you care._. “Back to his usual obstreperous self. Entirely unrepentant, of course.”

“What was your mother’s response when you told her?”

“She refused to accept he’d been taking drugs.” Mycroft paused. “They’re coming up today; as a matter of fact, they might be at the hospital already.”

“You should be there, as well.”

“I went this morning.”

“That doesn’t matter. Your father’s useless, and someone is going to have to make your mother see sense.”

“I’ve tried that already. She needs to see the situation for herself.”

“And what exactly is the situation?”

“That's up to Sherlock, isn't it? I'm assuming we'll have to send him somewhere.”

“That’s for your parents to decide. Again, Mycroft, you can’t allow this to distract you from your priorities right now.”

“You just said I should be there—”

“Yes. You need to be there to tell your mother to do her job. You need to be there to tell your father to grow a spine and take some responsibility for something other than pandering to Margaret’s ego. I’m sorry, boy, that this falls to you again, but there’s no one else. Then you need to walk away and leave them to it.”

Mycroft was struck by the novelty of Rudy becoming genuinely agitated, regardless that it wasn’t exactly productive or helpful. 

“I’m worried,” Rudy added and Mycroft was glad the man couldn’t see his surprise at the admission.

“About Sherlock?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Sherlock will always have other people to pick up the pieces of his life for him.” Mycroft didn’t think that likely if their parents were expected to be the ones to do so. “No, I’m more concerned about you,” Rudy added. “I don’t want this burden dropped onto your shoulders, as well. Sherlock spending the next few years using drugs as an attention-getting device—” 

“I doubt that’s what’s really going on.”

Mycroft expected Rudy to fire back a rebuke, but his uncle obviously thought Sherlock’s motives to be not worth discussion, as he moved on to the aspect of the situation Mycroft was least interested in discussing. “Did you tell your young woman?”

“Yes. She helped me find him, actually.” 

“What was her response otherwise?”

Mycroft was surprised that Rudy wasn’t surprised at his revelation, so he mulled over his answer for a few seconds. “Difficult to say. She seemed—remarkably calm about the whole thing. Pragmatic and sympathetic.”

“Good. You might use this to firm up her attachment.”

Mycroft didn’t much like the idea of encouraging Christina’s growing proprietary attitude towards his life, but was too tired to argue the point. “Should I let her meet Sherlock?”

“That’s an interesting idea. Do you think it’s necessary?”

“I don’t think so; it should be possible to make use of the situation without taking that risk.”

“I’ll leave it to your judgement, then.”

Mycroft couldn’t help a tiny frisson of pleasure at his uncle finally acknowledging that Mycroft wasn’t a complete idiot when it came to running his own scheme. Though he did wonder when and how the other shoe would drop.

“What are you going to do about Sherlock?” Rudy asked.

“What do you mean? You told me to leave it to my parents.”

“Give me some credit for knowing you better than that, boy. What are you actually going to do?”

Mycroft fumed. “I can’t exactly abandon him, can I?”

“You think you can tread that line? Watching over him without parenting him? And who will be your guide as you attempt to navigate those waters? Because I know that nothing you learnt in your parents’ house will have prepared you for that.”

“If he refuses to go to rehabilitation or if my parents refuse to address the problem I’ll have to step in, you know I must.” Mycroft stopped before his rising emotions carried him along to admitting that another loss might be too much for even him to cope with. “Beyond that I don’t know what I’ll do. But I will not abandon him.”

Rudy had nothing to say in response to that declaration and Mycroft was relieved when his uncle signed off soon after.

By the time he’d finished, Mycroft was exhausted in mind, body and spirit. He slouched to his room, flopped on the bed and ignored the pile of notes on his desk waiting to be turned into coherent thoughts on agricultural policy in the Common Market.

Ordinarily, motivating himself to tackle work was not difficult, no matter what else might be going on in his life. But thoughts of his brother, his parents, the pervasive dysfunction at the core of his family: these crowded out everything else. Now that the immediate panic about Sherlock was over, now that he was safe (-ish), everything Mycroft had been holding back had the space to crowd into his mind: Why had this happened? Why now? How long had Sherlock been taking drugs? Why had none of them noticed at Christmas that something was (in hindsight, obviously) awry with him?

Then Mycroft forced himself to face Sherlock's accusations at the hospital. Yes, everyone he knew had been lying to him for almost a decade. Mycroft recognised now that from an objective viewpoint, their life as a family seemed to exist as nothing more than a collection of lies born out of the dead body of a seven year-old boy, and nurtured on disastrously-misguided good intentions.

But where did it all stop? Could they stop lying to Sherlock now, even if they wanted to?

Mycroft felt like Macbeth, up to his knees in blood and regrets, casting longing glances over his shoulder back to the world he’d devalued, destroyed and now mourned as a lost Arcadia. And like Macbeth, Mycroft could see no viable alternative other than to just continue slogging forward and hope for the best.

Rudy was right; Mycroft was going to have to talk to his parents, but not about belatedly taking on the parental responsibilities they’d been shirking for years. They needed to have a calm, reasoned conversation about whether or not now was the time to tell Sherlock about Eurus. As risky as it would be, the best things might just be to blow apart the entire edifice of lies and start from scratch.

The more Mycroft thought about it, the more it made sense that now was the time. Sherlock was mature enough at fifteen to have deduced on his own that they were lying to him, and refusing him information that directly touched on his life. Mycroft recognised that this had to have had an influence on Sherlock’s drugs-taking. He’d always been the sensitive one of the three of them, overly conscious of his intellectual inferiority to his blazing younger sister, and more quixotic and emotion-driven than his staid older brother. It had made him peevish sometimes, even as a child, and that feeling of being misunderstood had turned into a discontent over the years that Mycroft and his parents hadn’t been able to address because they couldn’t be honest with Sherlock about its source. Before this Mycroft would never have believed that his brother's unhappiness would grow into self-destructiveness. But it had and now they had to deal with the root cause or it would never go away. 

Waiting any longer to tell Sherlock the truth would make the justification for their lies more difficult once Sherlock found out. And he would, Mycroft knew. Even if it was only the “truth” that their parents knew: that their mad little girl had killed a child, then tried to kill her family, then killed herself and seventeen others in a fire. Sherlock might not possess the same quality of genius that Eurus and Mycroft did, but he was tenacious and entirely without scruple in fighting for what he wanted. He would find a way. And if he found out the truth before their parents gave it to him, the results would be disastrous.

After attending two lectures that afternoon, Mycroft bit the bullet and went to the hospital. As the bus made its way to the eastern edges of Oxford, he calculated and recalculated the probability that his parents had already returned to Sussex. No matter how he manipulated the variables he always ended up with the same answer: he was going to have to endure dealing with his overwrought and accusatory mother. 

When he arrived in Sherlock's room, he forced down the little leap of joy at seeing only his father there; his mother had to be lurking somewhere, he reasoned.

“You again,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Mike!” his father exclaimed and scurried over to give him a brief, uncomfortable, one-armed semi-hug that Mycroft defended himself against by remaining stock still throughout.

“Father. Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head, apparently regressing to a five year-old. 

“Your mother will be sorry to have missed you; she's back at the hotel for a rest.”

Mycroft did his utmost to prevent his relief from showing. “When are you going home?”

“When Sherlock's released; we'll have him home with us for a week or so. We should go for dinner tonight.”

Mycroft noted his father's forced breeziness, as if Sherlock had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm instead of outing himself as a drug addict in the most melodramatic way possible. “I'm afraid I can't; I have another commitment.”

“Oh, that's too bad.”

Over his father's shoulder, Mycroft saw Sherlock glance at them, then, seeing Mycroft watching, flipped him a V and turned away again.

“How is he doing?”

“Better, according to the doctor. They're releasing him tomorrow. All he needs is rest and quiet.”

_And methadone and psychiatric treatment._ “I was going to get tea. Would you like to join me?”

In a surprising display of perspicacity, his father caught his unspoken message. “Of course. Sherlock's just had his and I'm parched.” He turned to Sherlock. “We'll be back in a tick, son.”

Sherlock made no acknowledgement of the words or their departure that Mycroft could see.

Waiting for the lift, his father seemed off on another planet, humming, his usual absent smile on his face as he stared into space. Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered if there was anything at all going on in there, or if the interior of his father's head was like an empty lift, containing nothing but flickering fluorescents and light instrumental versions of 1960s pop tunes. 

As they descended, his father turned to him. “Your mother was hoping to see you when we arrived.”

“I've been very busy. While I don't begrudge the time I spent chasing Sherlock down yesterday, it has put me behind. And I knew you'd call if there was any news.”

“That's an excuse your uncle would use.”

The doors slid open and they paused the conversation until they were settled in the basement cafeteria. Mycroft knew that in his father's mind, invoking Rudy was about the lowest blow he was capable of delivering. “When is Sherlock returning to school?”

“When we think he's ready.”

Mycroft knew that his opinions on Sherlock's mental state, or appropriate responses to the situation wouldn't be welcome, but he knew that for both his and his brother's sakes he couldn't leave it. “Did you discuss with him why he's been taking drugs for months?”

“Mike—your mother and I agree there's no point badgering the boy right now. You know how contrary he is; the more fuss, the more likely he is to keep at it just to annoy us. He's had a good scare—”

_A near-fatal self-indulgence more like_.

“—so we think it's best to not make too much of it right now.”

“He's been making his own synthetic drugs in the school labs—” 

“That's exactly the kind of accusation that doesn't help.”

“So you're not going to do anything?”

“He's apologised and said he's learnt his lesson.”

“He'll just take a slightly smaller dose next time.”

“Mycroft!”

“So he never brought up why with you? Did you even bother to ask? So you didn't get the rant about how everyone in the family has been lying to him for years and how he hates us all?”

There was no reply for half a minute as his father steadfastly refused to take the bait; Mycroft started to wonder if his father had even heard the question through all his layers of mental defences against the real world or anything that countered his preconceptions or his wife's orders. Then the man surprised Mycroft by answering, “Now is not the time, Mike.”

“We need to at least give the idea serious consideration.”

“Your mother won't agree.”

“I'm becoming less and less interested in Mummy's opinion on the matter.”

“Then why did you ask?” When Mycroft didn't answer, his father continued. “It would destroy her to bring this up now.”

“Why? It's been seven years. We have to deal with this sooner or later.”

“It's still too—the wounds are still too raw for her.” His father held up a hand to cut off Mycroft's protest but he went ahead anyway. “Because she refuses to consign it to the past. Because she wallows in—”

“Mycroft, there's no point in more bad feeling on the matter.” He paused and stared at his now-cold tea. “I imagine you won't be coming home at term break.”

“Do you really think Mummy would welcome me back?” _And I'll be too busy pretending to be dating someone Mummy insists can't possibly exist._

“Of course she would. It's your home.” His father seemed scandalised at the very idea. “Where else would you go?”

“I do have friends I can stay with, in Oxford.” _Unless I've gotten rid of her by then_. “And with exams coming up it might be best if I stay here.”

“You can't spend six weeks studying. Nor will you need to, son, if I know you.”

Mycroft refused to be jollied or flattered away from the point. “I'm going to have to catch up. And I'll spend a few days in London, seeing as I wasn't—” He caught himself before he brought up the Christmas fiasco. “Please assure me you'll at least give my suggestion serious consideration. He's ready. And the longer we wait the worse it'll be when we have to tell him. Imagine how Sherlock will feel if he figures it out himself. Or finds the press reports of Victor's disappearance and his memories come back on their own.”

To Mycroft's surprise, his father agreed to consider the matter, though he already knew what the answer would be. And when his parents refused again, Mycroft would have to face the decision about whether or not to tell Sherlock himself and damn the consequences with his parents. The alternative was to spend an unknown number of years on tenterhooks waiting for Sherlock to find out himself, and have as his only horribly inadequate defence that he'd tried and failed to convince their parents to break the seal on the great family secret, then taken the coward's way out and kept silent anyway. 

For the next three days Mycroft tried to force himself to concentrate on classes and papers, to no avail. Thoughts about what had happened, about his little brother in a hospital bed subjected to batteries of tests to determine just how successful he'd been at trying to destroy himself, insisted on regularly breaking into Mycroft's thoughts. To his relief, both Rudy and Christina left him alone, though he knew he couldn't leave things as they stood with either of them. 

Rudy would come for an update according to his own requirements. Mycroft had no news that would interest his uncle, so didn't waste any time worrying about him. But he knew he needed a reasonable story to present to Christina that would satisfy both her dangerous curiosity and unexpected familiarity with his current situation. 

He didn't know how to interpret her silence for the last few days, such a contrast to their seeing each other so frequently in the weeks since Christmas. There was a tiny, persistent niggle in the back of his mind worrying away at the notion that he might have miscalculated with her. He thought to call, then decided that a greater show of intent might be necessary so he decided to drop in on one of her regular visits to the fencing club.

The following evening he arrived to find her mid-bout. It was the first time he'd seen her spar with someone other than Harry, and even to Mycroft's only partially-trained eye it was obvious that Harry's assessment had been correct: she had being going easy on him. Very easy.

Mycroft took a seat along the wall near the change rooms and watched her take her opponent apart with an offhanded brutality that was a little unnerving. At the end, he was startled by her triumphant shout at taking the winning point. Poor manners, he knew, but her opponent didn't seem to mind; the two women chatted amiably on the piste as they removed their masks and gloves. 

When she saw him waiting, Christina gave him her cocked eyebrow and half-smile, then ambled over, swiping her sabre in the air a few times in a vainglorious manner.

“Hello there.” Her tone was friendly enough, but that was the only friendly aspect of her demeanour. Mycroft held back a bored sigh at the prospect of another evening lost, catering to the demands of one of the many unreasonable people in his life.

“Hello. I thought you never kept score?” Mycroft asked, watching her unbuckle her lamé.

She gave him a perplexed look. “Life’s about keeping score.” At his answering expression, she added, “You hypocrite; you do it all the time and don’t try to tell me you don’t.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to think of that statement; on the one hand he could hardly argue she was wrong, but on the other, her opening the conversation with a metaphorical slap across the face didn’t bode well for a productive evening. Shifting ever so slightly from foot to foot, she waited for him to reply.

“Perhaps. Sometimes,” he conceded once he’d accepted that seeming to eat a little crow up front might be in his interests.

“How’s your brother?”

“Well enough, all things considered.”

“Good.” To Mycroft’s relief, she seemed satisfied that she’d made whatever point she’d been trying to make, and had moved on. “Have you eaten?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Come back to my place? I’m starving and I don’t feel like going out.”

“All right.”

“I’ll just grab a shower first.” As she passed she gave a brief squeeze to his shoulder. Mycroft was amused that she thought he needed reassurance, but accepted it as proof her snit was over.

While he waited he propped himself up against the wall. He kept half an eye on another pair of fencers, duelling with epée, and as an aid to staying interested tried to predict the points that would be scored, based on an analysis of the duellists respective strengths and weaknesses. With little relish, his mind girded itself for an evening of a different kind of sparring.

Mycroft knew he shouldn’t bother being annoyed by Christina’s imperfections: the laugh that was too loud, the tongue too sharp, the unpredictable mood swings and quixotic temperament. Intellectually, he knew that she—Christina—did not matter. For she was only a place-holder, an animate object temporarily filling a space that could not for the moment be empty, whose personal qualities were of little significance. And yet Mycroft couldn’t help but be disheartened by the time he had to allocate to her, time he should be using to try to resolve the situation with Sherlock, regardless of Rudy’s opinions on the matter. This knowledge felt like a knife sliding into his guts, and the fact that he had chosen her was the twist at the end of the plunge.

What Mycroft didn’t understand was why he let her get under his skin. It displayed a lack of perspective on his part, if not a criminal inability to focus on the bigger picture. He would have to conquer that weakness very soon if he were to succeed in his future career.

By the time Christina emerged from the change room, Mycroft had managed to wheedle himself into a more appropriate frame of mind by focusing on the sex that was likely on offer. He knew that strategy was shallow and didn’t address the larger issue, but he accepted that this might be the best way to survive the next two weeks or so until he could jettison her from his life. 

To his relief, Christina didn’t seem any more in the mood for chit chat than he was. After a brief detour to her dormitory’s kitchen, where she produced and consumed a culinary monstrosity she referred to as a _grilled cheese and tomato sandwich_, they retired to her room and a much more pleasant interlude, engaging in sport of another kind.

After silently sharing a cigarette at the open window, they returned to bed and Mycroft sensed that now would most likely be when she’d bring up whatever she’d been holding back all evening.

“When will you know more about your brother’s situation?”

It wouldn’t have been Mycroft’s first choice of topic, but it was far from his last. “I’m not sure. My father was vague about what their plans were other than they were keeping him home from school for a while after being released from hospital.”

“How did—what was their reaction? To him using drugs.”

“My mother refused to believe any of it. She wasn't at the hospital when I was, so I have no idea what her reaction was once the incontrovertible evidence was right in front of her.”

Christina was silent for a minute or so and Mycroft sensed she was weighing up a number of alternate replies. “It’s hard to accept you’ve been wrong about someone you love. We always think we know them and almost never do.” It was a remarkably measured response for her, Mycroft thought, wondering if the sting was still to come. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Find a way to get my parents to do their jobs without getting trapped in the middle of it all.”

She chuckled. “Good luck with that.”

“Thank you, but I do have some experience.”

“Okay, Mr Devious.”

“I am not devious.”

“Yes you are; it's one of my favourite things about you.”

Perplexed, but willing to follow her lead, Mycroft turned to face her slightly naughty smile. “You have a list.”

“In ranked order. Would you like to hear it?”

“No, thank you.” He paused. “Perhaps the top item.”

She laughed. “You're very amenable in bed.”

“That's your favourite?”

“It's important!” She rolled onto her side and tucked her hands under her pillow as she watched him closely. “You aim to please. That's a good starting point.”

“You consider this my most important characteristic? That I aim to please.”

“No. Favourite, not most important. Though it is important.” She grinned. “Lucky me.”

Mycroft couldn't help an embarrassed laugh; after weeks of physical intimacy, he still found her frankness on the subject startling. “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”

“What?” she asked, noting his change of tone.

“I've never thought of myself as someone who strove to—”

“This is serious business, you know, setting you out on the right path.”

“What are you talking about?”

“As the first woman you've slept with, it's my responsibility to send you out into the world with good habits, for the benefit of everyone else you sleep with in the future.”

“Ah, the sisterhood.”

“I think a starting point of being concerned about your partner's pleasure is a universal good. But I couldn't careless about—actually, really, no, I'm just being selfish,” she finally conceded with a grin.

“Of course.”

She chuckled. “Selfishness is a motive you're willing to recognise as valid, I see.”

“Well, I am Mr Devious.”

“Yes, you are.” 

~ + ~

For the next few days, Mycroft navigated classes, a meeting with Bevan (he wondered if he would ever stop expecting to find his uncle lurking in his tutor’s office), and various boring papers. As a sideline, he periodically returned to Christina’s sudden interest in his family. While he was grateful for her invaluable assistance with the hunt for Sherlock, Mycroft couldn’t help regretting her involvement.

Her growing sense of entitlement over his life was an entirely unanticipated, unwelcome variable; he hadn't even thought to account for it when he’d run his initial analysis before embarking on this plan. For weeks he’d been able to control for its influence, but the Sherlock situation had allowed it to break out of its constraints and begin to infest other components of his algorithms.

As a computational and analytical problem it had its points of interest, which did present him with a brief, tiny temptation to let it run its course and see where they ended up. But the success of his overall plan was too important to be waylaid by purely academic curiosity. The current situation was certainly grave enough to necessitate a re-think, though.

How long had it been? Ten weeks since their first date? Mycroft cast his mind back; it had been seven weeks since they’d first slept together. Surely that would be enough to keep his uncle and any other shadowy monitors off his back for at least a year. Ideally, he needed to find a way to gain even more breathing space before he’d have to engage in another such charade. A year of peace hardly seemed adequate recompense for his current sacrifices.

Extending his grace period would require him to have some sort of valid excuse for not dating in that time. Claiming the demands of his career would hardly suffice until he was in a position of responsibility. So Mycroft let the problem roll around the back of his mind as he sat, dumbfounded, through a lecture on the Vietnam War that defined wrong-headed and ahistorical. By the time he led his equally-stunned classmates out the door, he had an inkling of an idea as to how to resolve his problem, though not yet a plan for how to make it happen.

The more he thought about the idea, circling it and prodding for weaknesses to try to pick it apart, the more it seemed to be his best option for longer-term success: find a way to make Christina break up with him, in public, and against his protests. In order to buy a second or even third year of freedom from having to participate in another “dating” charade, he would need to publicly humiliate himself, protest his love for her, plead with her to take him back, then feign grief for “the lost love of his life”. Mycroft recognised that the duration of grace he bought with this grotesque sham was directly proportional to the humiliation he could have to endure; the idea dismayed him, but he could see no equally-effective alternative.

It was going to hurt. For his vulgar display of emotion, people he respected would look on him with distaste, even if only for a brief period until he could prove himself sound in all other ways. But afterwards, he could walk away and begin the next chapter of his life free from the need to pretend to be normal in order to make himself acceptable to the unimaginative drones that made up most of the middle ranks of the civil service.

He needed to decide when it should happen, then come up with a plan for pushing Christina into tossing him over in public. Because regardless of when it happened, she needed to be the one to make the move if his scheme were to have any chance of success; in order to fool Rudy, the push had to be publicly seen to have come from Christina.

There were a few weeks left in the term; it was imperative to have the situation resolved before the term break, Mycroft recognised. The voice at the back of his mind, the one that tempted him with fantasies of just letting go and damn the consequences, teased him with the siren call of just doing it now. _Get it over and done with,_ it said, but Mycroft hesitated. Had it really been long enough? The last thing he wanted was to go through the humiliating mess only to have Rudy demand he find an immediate replacement for her. 

Then he realised he might have no choice as to when it happened; most likely he would have to just grab the first opportunity that came along and play it by ear. Instinctually he recoiled at the idea of not planning the event to the last detail. Considering that they rarely spent much time together anywhere but her rooms anymore, manoeuvring her into taking such drastic action _in public_ would be a challenge. Much as he disliked the notion, he would just have to recognise his chance when it came, and respond appropriately on the fly. If nothing else, it would be a good test of his ability to think on his feet, and that was never a bad thing. With some satisfaction, he put the decision to bed and began to spin up his scheming algorithms to devise a reasonable plan of attack.

~ + ~

The next three times that Mycroft and Christina met, he couldn't convince her to go out. While his sex life was developing apace, his plan began to languish and he wondered if she noticed his growing frustration, exhibiting itself as peevishness (which she ignored) and long silent spells (which she indulged by remaining silent herself).

Their fourth date after he'd devised his plan was to a concert at the Sheldonian. A crowd of elderly Oxford faculty and townsfolk was hardly the audience he needed for his envisioned verbal knockabout, public breakup and feigned romantic breakdown, so he continued in his role as complaisant boyfriend.

In the end, it took him almost two weeks to manoeuvre her into an appropriate venue in front of an appropriate audience to ensure their breakup became the three-day wonder Mycroft required.

They met at the Waterstones on The Broad and, to Mycroft's chagrin, five minutes after they arrived ran into one of his least favourite school bores, George Stevens.

“Holmes!” Stevens brayed across the shop floor with his usual false bonhomie.

Mycroft had no idea why he was being subjected to it; Stevens had largely ignored him at school. They'd run into one another no more than half a dozen times in the years since and every time pretended the other didn't exist. “Stevens.”

As Stevens approached, Christina ambled a retreat to a nearby display and pretended a fascination with World War II history that Mycroft knew to be entirely false.

“Not killed off by the PPE grind, yet, eh?” Stevens proclaimed as he approached.

Mycroft only shrugged, fascinated despite himself as to why Stevens was acting so oddly.

“Bet you're all ready for exams, already memorised every book in the library—”

Mycroft ignored a faint snort from Christina. “How is Eastern European history?” Mycroft directed back at Stevens, who was watching Christina, which he considered even odder than Stevens talking to him. 

“Fine, fine. Bit redundant, now. Soon as I start a program to get me into the diplomatic, bang, there goes the Berlin Wall and the Soviets up in smoke. Still, a Trinity man'll never go begging.”

_Unfortunately_, Mycroft thought. Of all the people he'd been forced to endure in his life, few if any would better served by a long bout of begging than George Stevens.

“Natural leaders are always in demand,” Stevens added, and Mycroft wondered if the man thought Mycroft was the same grade of nitwit Stevens had always surrounded himself with, or if he was clumsily claiming he and Mycroft were part of the same tribe.

“Some people are just born to lead, Holmes. And some people—” Stevens glanced over to where Christina peered at the spines of a shelf of books. “—can never be more than NCOs.” At Mycroft's expression, Stevens back-pedalled a little. “Damned useful people—important, even, in their own way—NCOs. But not leaders. _We_ make the decisions, and _they_ make them happen.”

What an utterly bizarre turn of events, Mycroft thought, and put it out of his mind until he and Christina were at a cafe. When Mycroft recounted Stevens' assessment of her, she laughed, loudly, for ten seconds or so, her entire body participating in this particular form of character assassination of Mycroft's former classmate.

“Oh god, the English class system. Fuck you all and the horse you rode in on,” she said with no apparent malice, as she wiped her eyes. “If I didn't know George Stevens was headed for a boring, shit job he'll hate, a mid-life crisis at 38 and at least two half-hearted suicide attempts before his 45th birthday, I might be offended.”

Mycroft ignored the vulgarity. “All right,” he replied, encouraging her to paint herself into a corner that only a fight could get her out of.

“All right,” she mimicked, near note-perfectly, though the smile still hadn't left her face. “Let me break it down for you. George Stevens is a middle-class bully who wants to be an upper-class bully. He wants to be king of his tiny hill, but he's too lazy to put in the effort. Not that he's capable of scaring anyone other than his mirror, because he's too stupid to even know how to make effective use of his own venality.”

Mycroft settled back in his chair; the more she spun out this tale the more ammunition she gave him to work with.

“He wants power,” Christina continued. “But he doesn't want to work for it. His father is a partner in a small investment bank with an 'exclusive' clientele. When he graduates, George will take the path of least resistance, even though it means staying under the thumb of a man he hates and who has bullied him his entire life. The booze and drugs are going to catch up with him in about fifteen years, so he'll have the body and brain of a 50 year-old before he's 40. So, mid-life crisis in his late 30s, once he realises he's useless, can't pull anymore, and all the people he thinks are his friends despise him as a failure. 

“In his 40s, reality will begin to catch up to George—not even someone as stupid as him can ignore it for more than 20 years—and he'll realise he's wasted every single moment of his life. His bully father won't be around anymore to tell him what to do because he'll have drunk himself to death by then. George will be coming to the realisation that his entire life has passed him by, he won't have his dead dad to try to impress anymore, so what's the point of living? But he's a pussy, so George won't even bother to make more than a half-assed attempt, and once he realises all the lovely sympathy and attention his failure gets him, he'll try again. And then maybe again after that. And either he'll accidentally succeed, the drinking will catch up with him, or maybe he might just smarten up and start to build himself a life worth living.” She paused to take a sip of coffee. “But I wouldn't bet on it.”

“Yes, well, you're probably right. You got that from overhearing a one-minute conversation?”

“I've met George before.”

“Oh. How—ah, Harry.”

“Yes.”

“I'm trying to imagine being a fly on the wall—”

“Believe it or not, I've been on worse blind dates.”

“No wonder you were apprehensive about me.”

“I was never apprehensive about you; you're about as unlike George Stevens as a man can be. That was obvious in about two seconds.”

Mycroft decided to ignore the compliment. “You make snap judgements about people.”

“I've learned how to smell a rat pretty much immediately. Hard-bought experience.”

“Which you've obviously had a lot of.”

Christina held back what Mycroft suspected would have been a cutting remark before replying. “I guess that depends on what you mean by 'a lot'.”

The tone was a clear warning, which surprised him; he didn't think his statement particularly damning. But she'd obviously taken it other than how he'd intended. In any other circumstance, Mycroft would apologise. But it appeared that he'd stumbled on a trigger that might just set her off. The very careful word choice meant she knew she was on the edge and was giving him a chance to back down. Instead he (metaphorically) placed his hands in the middle of her back and shoved.

“It's obvious you've dated a lot of men. And at least one woman. Not that I'm judging; I've rather enjoyed benefitting from your extensive experience.” 

Mycroft could tell from the rigidity of her jaw and the slight elevation of her breathing that she was taking some pains to downgrade her reply from a hurricane to a mere tropical storm.

“I'd be curious to hear why you think you're qualified to judge me in _any_ way,” was what eventually escaped from her pursed mouth.

“I'm not—I'm complimenting you, the way you did—” He feigned slightly hurt surprise. “I wanted you to know how much I appreciate you.” That might have been laying it on too thick, he thought.

"By implying I'm a slut.” 

_Bingo_. “No, not at all. I'd never—I care for you too much.”

“Care for me.” Her tone was leaden and in the silence that followed, her expression became a mix of accusatory and inquisitive. “You've spent the last three months doing everything in your power to let everyone know our relationship is some sort of offhand inconvenience to you and now you have the gall to say you 'care for me'. Wow.”

Mycroft decided stubborn obliviousness would be his best bet. “Well, it did take some time to reconcile myself to your past. Then I recognised I was able to look past it; my feelings for you—”

“Are that you've deigned to 'forgive' me for having slept with _so many_ other men because you've benefitted from my consequently vast sexual experience—” 

“No, no—”

“Oh, yes, yes, Holmes.” Her voice had begun to climb the decibel scale and people at the surrounding tables had started to take notice. _Better and better_, he thought, while schooling his expression into dumbfounded concern. To his surprise she stood, apparently trying to salvage the situation before she said something he might consider unforgivable. “This isn't the place for this—”

|"Chris, please.” He reached across the table for her hand, which she pulled away just in time. “Please let me explain. I've been—inexcusably stupid. Forgive me? I—don't go. _Please_.”

To Mycroft's dismay, she appeared to be gaining some control over her temper. 

“I think we should take a break for a few days—” she began before Mycroft interrupted to dislodge her fingertips from the cliff edge.

“I—please don't walk away from me.” He glanced around to the surreptitious curiosity that surrounded them. “I know I've been a fool. Give me a chance to make it up to you.” Mycroft wondered if he was laying it on too thick. He was astonished she's let him go this far. And would she believe him capable of such grovelling? Perhaps it was time to shift his approach from pathetic to execrable. 

She continued to stare down at him and much of the heat in her expression had dissipated. She seemed hesitant, as if warring with herself over what to do next. He had to make up her mind for her. 

“Please don't leave. I know what 'take a break' means. I—I can't bear the thought of you with anyone else. We're perfect for each other; I know you know that. Even you sensed it that first time, when Harry introduced us. You'll never find anyone else as perfect for you as me. I think you know that, really.”

She was peering down at him through the dim light and cigarette smoke of the cafe, as if she was seeing him for the first time and was deciding whether or not it was worth her time to crush him like a bug.

“Please, for both our sakes,” he pleaded again, pitching his voice low and thick with a desperation he recognised was real, even if of an entirely different nature from what he wanted her to believe.

She pulled back her hand from his grasp again, then leant down so that only he could hear her. “You judgemental, odious little virgin grotesque. Leave me the fuck alone.” She grabbed her bag and stomped out of the cafe.

Mycroft forced himself to gaze longingly after her, as if oblivious to the palpable stares of half the people in the cafe, whose heads snapped back around the moment he took his eyes off the door. Furtive with feigned shame, he glanced around the cafe and saw three Merton students, two others from his program, and—in a startling stroke of luck—David Rutherford, the one person in the room willing to meet Mycroft's eye. The mixture of horror and triumph on David's face spoke of different problems in Mycroft's near future, but if there was anyone at Oxford more willing and able to spread this news around the town, Mycroft didn't know of them.

He dropped his eyes to his coffee cup in a charade of mortification. _That went as well as could be hoped for_, he thought, tucking away an importunate sly grin.

~ + ~ 

Overnight, Mycroft's reputation at Oxford went from over-accomplished, tedious bore to superstar gossip subject. Before he'd even entered the hall for lunch the next afternoon, he'd had seven Merton girls and four from other colleges stop him in the street or the quads to commiserate about what a “bitch” (or worse) Christina had been for dumping him, especially in such a public manner. Comments ranged from sympathy to overt offers of consolation; apparently, having dated one attractive woman opened the gateway to others who'd ignored him for most of three years. As a result, Mycroft had ample opportunities to test drive the false protestations of love for Christina that he planned on using as a shield for as long as he could get away with. Over the course of the next three days, these protestations became increasingly baroque which, to his surprise, seemed to make them even more effective.

Being emotion-avoidant (they were, after all, upper-class Englishmen), his male classmates steered a clear path around Mycroft and his growing chorus of female sympathisers, drawn to his feigned misery like clucking hens to a distressed chick. 

By the end of the week he began to regret his success: the attention had become unbearable. To his surprise, neither David nor Amanda took the opportunity to swoop in and stake a claim on him. Even more surprising was Amanda's absence from his new guard troop. Mycroft wasn't sure if they were waiting for the crowd to clear, secure in their belief he'd still be available, or (in Amanda's case) that he was now irredeemably-damaged goods, so best avoided.

Even without this unexpected boon, Mycroft would have been giddy with relief. Finally rid of the least satisfying of his obligations, he could now focus on what really mattered: school and family. Though that resolution didn't provide him with much help in deciding what he needed to do about Sherlock.

~ + ~

It was with a light step and less-burdened heart that Mycroft made his way to his last tutorial of the term with Bevan. The sight of a pair of perfectly-polished wingtips and perfectly-pressed trousers protruding from the front of the wingback in front of Bevan's office fireplace was disheartening, if not exactly surprising. Whether the subject of the conversation was to be Sherlock, his parents, or Christina, Rudy had come for his pound of Mycroft's flesh.

“Uncle,” he said as he handed his last paper of the term to Bevan.

“Mycroft. Have you heard from your parents recently? How is Sherlock?”

Mycroft glanced over to Bevan, hunched behind his desk; this was hardly the place to be discussing Sherlock. “Perhaps we can discuss this over dinner?” Mycroft suggested to his uncle.

Bevan interjected with a hawkish glance. “Oh, pretend I'm not here.”

_Not bloody likely_, Mycroft thought as he turned to Rudy. “Not since he was released from hospital.”

“And you haven't thought to call?”

“And endure an hour of my mother telling me it's somehow all my fault, while at the same time somehow none of my business now that the hard work of finding him is over.”

“I think you might be over-dramatising.”

“She hid from me at the hospital when I went to see them and made my father brazen it out without even an apology for refusing to make an iota of effort to find him beyond losing their heads completely and tossing the problem into my lap.”

“Yes, I see your point.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Me?” Rudy seemed genuinely shocked at the suggestion. “No one has less influence on the situation than I do. As I said before, boy, your brother is your parents' responsibility and it's time they accepted that fact. For all you know, the current radio silence means they're doing exactly that.”

Mycroft glanced over to Bevan, who wasn't even bothering to hide his interest in the conversation, regardless of the fact that Mycroft's personal life was none of his business.

“How are things with your young woman?” Rudy asked in tones that informed Mycroft that he knew exactly how things were. The moment Rudy asked, Mycroft knew that this was the reason his uncle had crashed his tutorial. The lack of real concern about Sherlock was galling, but hardly unfamiliar. He decided to let it go for another day. “We broke up.”

“Why?”

“I said something that apparently made her unhappy. So she broke it off.”

“So the Martin girl is out of the picture, eh?” Rudy mused as he selected a biscuit from the plate in front of him.

“Yes.”

“And you were together two months?”

“A little more than three.” _Why are you demanding I confirm mundane facts we all already know?_

Rudy and Bevan exchanged a glance over the teapot to Mycroft's growing consternation. What could Bevan possibly have to do with this? “That should suffice, I think.” Bevan sniffed as he poured Mycroft a cup. “Pity about the other.”

_Other?_ Mycroft glanced between the two men, warily alert to Bevan's unexpected participation, and Rudy's lack of concern about it. 

“I believe the young woman has already been introduced to Gabriel Moran's elder son.” Bevan handed Mycroft his tea, while addressing his words to Rudy.

“Not the worst possible outcome if that progresses. However—” Despite Rudy's detached, mild tone, Mycroft knew the man well enough to see the half-hidden disdain directed at him. 

He wondered what he possibly could have done to elicit such an attitude. He'd done exactly as his uncle had demanded. He'd established a cover story as a boring, unexceptional normal. Christina had obliged them all by conducting an acrimonious break-up in public, during which Mycroft had been able to display his formidable dramatic skills by pretending to beg her to stay with him and which allowed him to usefully debase himself with fake expressions of love for her. How much more vulgar and mundane did Rudy want him to pretend to be? Any more of this, and people would start to suspect his intellect, as well as his taste in romantic partners. 

Mycroft did wonder why the two men considered Christina's future worthy of discussion, now that they no longer had any need for her. What did it matter if she moved on to the odious Moran? The man was welcome to her, as far as Mycroft was concerned.

“Unfortunately, Moran is not interested in the young woman for whatever charms she might possess.” Bevan was now addressing Mycroft and his tutor's usual fustian air was gone, replaced by a hawk-like regard that left no doubt as to his opinion of Mycroft's role both in the change in Christina's affections and its significance.

“Whatever those might be.” Rudy joined Bevan in a four-point glare in Mycroft's direction. “At least if young Moran convinces her to attach herself to him, it will keep her out of the hands of the Americans. Drummond was almost salivating at the prospect of having her at MIT. He was most upset at her uncle for convincing her to come here instead.”

Mycroft's confusion was growing. Why suddenly— Then the realisation struck: he'd been played. Rudy had told him to throw himself at Christina in the most demeaning way imaginable, not for his own sake, not for the sake of his career, but to secure _her_ for some reason. 

The recognition sliced into his bruised ego with a brutal precision sure to leave an ineradicable memory. It had never been about him or his future; Rudy had just used him to get to Christina for some reason that Mycroft had been deemed too unimportant to be trusted with. The shame at having been so easily fooled, the anger at having his trust so abused, made him put down his teacup with a leaden carefulness that said: Enough. I'm not playing this game any more.

Mycroft wanted to stomp off and lick his wounds, but there was something else he wanted even more. They had used him. They had wanted Christina to fall in love with Mycroft in order to induce her to stay in England; Mycroft needed to know why. Why had his uncle endangered their relationship—the last one he had with the only family he had left—for the sake of _Christina Martin_?

Mycroft watched the two men exchange a glance that so obviously said “the boy's finally caught on” that he momentarily questioned his decision to not storm out. He forced himself to set aside his lacerated ego and muffle his shame; there had to be some logic behind Rudy's actions. He caught a tendril of it in Bevan's expectant stare. Once he had it, he followed the obvious pathway through to its natural conclusion. 

They had set him a test—two tests, actually—and he'd failed one of them miserably. While one part of his brain wondered why anyone would go to all that trouble for the sake of a working-class Canadian economist of no notable talent, the rest of his brain whirled through the possible consequences to him of his failure and how he might remediate his situation.

“Her sense of pride will compel her to look favourably on Moran's attentions.” Mycroft took a delicate sip of tea and allowed himself a little pride that he managed to keep his hands steady. He settled back in his chair, to any observer oblivious to the intense examination of the two men across from him. “She feels she has been poorly used. Taken advantage of. Moran's no fool; he'll appeal to her pride, mollify her, as she'll have no qualms about abusing me in great detail, thereby providing him with a clear strategy for attaching her to himself. The woman has no sense of strategy or cunning, so will fall into his trap. At least until some other distraction comes her way.” 

Rudy gave a tiny, wistful sigh and shared a glance with Bevan before turning his attention back to Mycroft. “Were you aware of the nature of Miss Martin's studies?”

“Something to do with game theory. Hardly interesting or revolutionary, even for an economist.” If he was honest with himself, Mycroft had to admit he'd never had a moment's curiosity as to what Christina's studies had been, much less her thesis topic. 

“No, Holmes, the economics degree is—a ruse. A useful disguise.” Bevan's smile was like the singing of blades being drawn from scabbards. “She's a cryptographer and code breaker.” Mycroft suddenly had a frozen, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach at that last word. “And according to a colleague in America, has the potential to be one of the finest around,” Bevan added, nestling himself back into his chair.

_A colleague_. Mycroft let those words sink in as he frantically attempted to reorder his conception of the known universe to accommodate the idea that a middling-grade economic historian was _colleagues_ with American cryptography experts who (apparently) worked with or for the Intelligence services. 

“And like many of her kind, she has no idea the full potential of her work. As a consequence, she is vulnerable to—” Rudy paused to ensure he had Mycroft's full attention. “Distractions. Influences not in the best interests of Her Majesty's government. Forces which can lead her work in directions that are not in either her or our interests.”

Mycroft sat in silence as the horror of his stupidity ballooned to fill the room, forcing out all the air. He resisted the almost-overwhelming urge to loosen his tie and gulp down the few remaining slips of oxygen available. He kept his face impassive and rested his teacup and saucer on his thigh to hide the sudden shaking of his hand. “And Moran will be a malign influence on her.”

“Quite possibly, yes.” 

The room was silent as the three of them each contemplated their next move. Mycroft felt sweat start to bead out on his forehead and cursed his choice of suit. He'd gone for the dark grey worsted because he thought it made him look serious. It was, however, much too warm for the day and his tutor's stifling rooms and now he was looking not just a fool, but a nervous fool for it.

“Have you given any thought to what Intelligence work will be in twenty years, thirty years, Holmes?” Bevan's question was expressed in more familiar academic tones as his tutor regressed to what Mycroft now knew was a carefully realised cover identity as a pedantic mediocrity.

Mycroft took a deep breath, feeling the security of more familiar ground under his feet. “I imagine that much of the work will be as it has always been: information gathering, analysis, disinformation. Though I imagine some methodologies will change as we take advantage of new technol—” His mouth was stoppered by another realisation that hit him like a sledgehammer to the back of the head. The realisation of what had been driving not just their conversation but his entire “enterprise”. _And the transmission and security of information will depend on new forms of cryptography Mycroft Holmes you are an ass of the first order. Hang your head in shame, you complete and utter moron._

Signals intelligence. The heart of intelligence work for millennia and by far the most difficult to resource because any upper class goon could be schooled to spying, but code breakers were born, not made. And he'd apparently come close to depriving his future employer of one. The sheer obliviousness of his actions was—was this the end, he wondered. Was this why Rudy was here? To give him the news himself that Mycroft's future was over before it had even begun? 

Was there even a way back from this kind of bungle? He needed to start reclamation actions _now_. How, though?

Christina herself had once said that the best defence was a good offence. He needed to get off his back foot; swinging for the upper deck might just get him out, but he could see no other way to take the game back to his uncle.

“How could you possibly have know I'd choose her? If she's so important, why did you leave it to chance?”

“I know you better than you know yourself.” At Mycroft's obvious disdain for that sentiment, Rudy continued. “I've known you since you were born, since before you developed consciousness, before you'd had an inkling of your self or your own motivations. And I've known for many years that you have a knack for turning the path of least resistance into the best possible path to your goal. It's quite the trick.”

Mycroft didn't know whether or not to allow himself to be flattered, or even if that had been his uncle's intention. Not that it mattered. “What if I hadn't?”

“Her choice of fencing club wasn't a coincidence.”

Harry. Harry had been his uncle's backup plan. Which proved Rudy was far from omniscient if he'd thought there was any possibility Harry would leave the odious Suzanne for Christina. Who'd been their Plan C? Plan D? Just how far would they have been willing to go? And what if he hadn't chosen her? What would have happened to him?

As his mind lurched back and forth inside his skull like a first-year during freshers week, Mycroft watched his uncle snap a biscuit in half and pop a piece into his mouth before giving Mycroft a tight, thin-lipped smile. “With any luck, the young woman'll warrant the expenditure made to secure her,” he said after swallowing.

Bevan topped up the teapot with hot water and Mycroft diverted himself with the horror of what Christina's future might hold, if that turned out not to be the case. As if being attached to Sebastian Moran wouldn't be bad enough.

Mycroft aggregated a number of clues, suspicions and assumptions based on his knowledge of the people involved, and asked, “Will she ever know she's really working for you?”

“She never will be. Not directly.”

“If she's half as clever as you insist she is,” Bevan directed to Rudy. “She'll figure it out. Then you'll have a decision to make.”

Mycroft almost choked on his tea as Rudy answered. “It'll never come to that. We would never waste a mind of that quality, regardless.” He turned to Mycroft. “A policy you may come to be grateful for in the not too distant future.”

Mycroft recovered in time to cool and lighten his tone. “May?” 

Rudy just cocked an eyebrow at him before turning to Bevan. While Mycroft didn't know how exactly to interpret the look that passed between them, his tutor broke it off with a derisive snort and Mycroft guessed Rudy'd been silently ordered to back off for the time being.

Rudy then turned his attention back to Mycroft and the two of them watched each other for a few seconds, neither flinching. It was obvious that Rudy expected Mycroft to break first, and in a fit of pique and curiosity, he decided to wrong-foot his uncle, just to see if he could.

“Peter Bishop. That was you.”

Rudy’s complete lack of reaction to the name and the accusation were admirable, especially considering the _non sequitur._

__

__

“I’m afraid I don’t know who or what you’re referring to,” Rudy replied, with the slightest hint of disquiet, as if he were secretly concerned that someone else in the SIS might be trying to elbow his way onto his territory. But Bevan gave the game away; out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw a tiny, momentary upward hitch of the man’s eyebrows.

For two seconds there was a three-way standoff before Bevan grumbled to Rudy, “I told you Bishop was the wrong choice.”

“And you still haven’t explained why,” Rudy answered, finally acknowledging the game.

“Too good-looking.” Bevan gestured to Mycroft without looking at him. “Anyone who looks like him would be suspicious of someone like Bishop approaching him. Assuming he had any brains at all.”

Flushing in anger and embarrassment at the possibly justified, but unnecessarily gauche, assertion, Mycroft watched the two men turn their attentions back to him. He knew his scowl and red face were giving them nothing but evidence of the failings of temperament his uncle had berated him for in the past.

Under the uncompromising, if not exactly unfriendly, stares of the only two people in his life who might have in some way qualified as mentors, Mycroft surveyed the last three months of his life. The changes and revelations of those months had fallen upon him out of the sky, like massive boulders raining down from his own personal Krakatoa. He recognised now that he had two choices: use those stones to build a castle, or a mausoleum for his ambitions.

He had been used, abused, lied to, and manipulated. He had been tested in ways be could not have previously even imagined he might be tested, and he had failed, spectacularly. And while he felt as though he had been condemned over and over again, what Mycroft saw on their faces as they watched and waited for his reaction was more curiosity than anything else. He could choose his pride over sense and ensure his failure as final, or he could bow his head, ever so slightly, and concede that in accepting responsibility for his failures he might just buy himself another chance. This was the final test, and he vowed to himself that he would pay the price today in order to secure the right to a rematch. And that game he would win.

~ + ~


	8. Can you imagine what she’s like now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft confronts his uncle, and some demons

Mycroft only noticed where his feet were taking him enough to avoid bumping into walls or people. During the journey from Bevan's office to his rooms, he sensed twice that someone might have called his name as he strode by, driven by a rising humiliation, through the corridors of Merton.

As the distance from Bevan's office grew, the more Mycroft's shame-fuelled indignation carried him away from concern about his bungle and speculation about whether or not his failure was a worse crime than his inability to discern what the real test had been. By the time he arrived at his room, a shamed grievance began to take hold. He was as angry at himself for allowing Rudy to mollify him as at his own stupidity.

Before he knew it, three hours had passed, lost to the mental whirl of trying to come to terms with just how egregiously he'd been used, lied to, and manipulated by the one person in his life that he thought might have been at least a little concerned for his welfare.

As he sat on his bed in the growing gloom of evening and the surge of self-righteous anger retreated into a defensive numbness, Mycroft turned to the consolation of logic. He unpacked every interaction with Rudy going back to October, trying to discern if there had been any clues he'd missed, or if he should have been able to see that the whole enterprise had been a sham from the start. Did the lies go even further back than that, he wondered. How long had Rudy been priming Mycroft to be his dupe? Years? Had Rudy ever spoken the truth to him?

That afternoon's revelations and Mycroft's new doubts about Rudy's assertions cast a whole new light on what he and his uncle had referred to as Mycroft's “situation”. He knew he had to resist the temptation to ignore his problem: his lack of interest in the rest of the human race and the risk that presented for his future career. Did he now have to decipher Rudy's actions to find his true motives, and then re-assess just how deep the hole he was currently in?

His analysis turned on one unanswered question: did he even have to? His assertion to Rudy that the world was changing could hardly be debated; the world was always changing. Just as the men who'd fought World War II had had to adjust their thinking to address their “new world” of the Cold War, so the old cold warriors like Rudy had to adjust their thinking to the new post-Cold War world that Mycroft and other young men would inherit now that the Berlin Wall had fallen and Communism vanquished. Was it even appropriate for Rudy to presume that the rules that applied ten years ago were still valid today? And ten years from now? Thirty? Playing devil's advocate with himself, Mycroft wondered if he was allowing himself to be led by wishful thinking.

Standing on the hilltop of his own self-regard and looking back over the logical pathways that had led him there, Mycroft suspected that there might be more than a hint of self-interest colouring them. But that recognition did nothing to diminish Mycroft's anger that Rudy had lied to him. And once he'd accepted that it was all lies, everything was called into question: from Rudy's attitude to Sherlock and his parents, to the Eurus situation, to Mycroft's future, and what he might have to sacrifice to get where he deserved to be.

Mycroft knew that his resistance was partly due to the fact he'd never been as interested as others seemed to be in defining his sexuality. Was he gay? Was he straight? Why the hell did it matter, he’d always wondered, especially in view of the fact he’d never been particularly interested in _anyone_. All things considered, chromosomal configuration didn’t come into it. 

He’d long ago deduced that sex was a problematic, fugitive, unreliable force that needed to be acknowledged as the powerful enemy it was, and his experiences with Christina over the past few months had done nothing to present a counter-argument. Like any powerful and pervasive enemy, sex needed to be addressed face on, confined, and made use of whenever appropriate and feasible. The fact that fools allowed it such pre-eminence in their lives was nothing to him, except when said fools deluded themselves into believing Mycroft was a fellow-traveller on whatever caravan they rode through their insignificant, unimaginative lives. 

He was not.

He did not belong to a clan or a tribe or a cohort, much less a “visible minority” other than, perhaps, that most exclusive minority called _genius_. And Mycroft knew—at least he had the confidence—that his mind would be more than ample recompense for any political or security risk attendant on employing someone as idiosyncratic as him.

Once the immediate backlash against his humiliation and anger had been wrangled and disposed of, Mycroft was able to recognise the wider context of what his response should be. Most importantly, it brought immediately to his attention his hypocrisy regarding Sherlock. How was Rudy using and lying to him any different from what Rudy and Mycroft had been doing to Sherlock for most of a decade? Once Mycroft realised that, he knew the source of the sharp, clenching pain that had been growing in his chest for hours. Was _this_ empathy, he thought. If so, it was a late arrival on the scene and not a welcome one, but there wasn't much he could do about it, now that its presence had been felt. Unless, of course, he chose to heed what he assumed was its urging and allowed himself to be lead by the recognition that this might be a solution to his Sherlock dilemma.

The more he pondered the possibility over the course of the evening, Mycroft's belief—raised in the aftermath of Sherlock's overdose—that they needed to tell him about Eurus wrestled its way to the forefront of his mind. It still seemed logical to him that to solve the problem of Sherlock's despair and disconnection they had to strike at its root: his belief that everyone in his family was lying to him.

But if they told Sherlock, what then? Laying aside his parents' reaction to the notion (which was of diminishing consequence, he thought), what would be the fall-out?

Firstly, Sherlock would want to meet her. And someone not Mycroft would have to be prepared to deal with his brother's probable reaction to his recovered memories of Victor's disappearance, and the trauma of the police investigation that had followed and resulted in Eurus burning Musgrave down in an attempt to kill them all. And while he was loath to give the man even conceptual space in his reasoning, Mycroft had to admit that Rudy would have a considerable amount to say about it. For one thing, he would be the principal obstacle to Sherlock seeing their sister again. For a moment Mycroft indulged in a revenge fantasy of telling Sherlock, solely to unleash him on their uncle, then sit back and watch the man try to cope with denying Sherlock something he wanted.

At the back of his mind, Mycroft warily monitored his simmering unease at the idea of launching Sherlock cold into Eurus' pathology. What would Eurus's reaction be to regaining the brother she'd obsessed over before her descent into madness? She would be just fourteen now, and Mycroft had no idea how stable or functional she might be. Would meeting her be a help to Sherlock, or a hindrance?

A part of his brain, wary of these new flights of fanciful rebellion against the established family order, began to make inroads into his consciousness, counselling caution.

There was nothing to debate once he recognised the possible danger; he had to go to Sherrinford himself and scope out the situation. He wasn't comfortable relying on the scraps of negligible information that Rudy had passed on over the past three years. If nothing else, demanding that his uncle take him would prove that Mycroft wasn't going to be ruled by him anymore. 

By the time he slid into bed that night, Mycroft was feeling—if not necessarily better, at least resolute. He had a response to Rudy's lies and manipulation over the Christina matter, and a plan that might start to address what was now the greatest concern of his life. He wasn't bowled over by either of them, but considering the limits to his options and resources, Mycroft felt that at least it was a start. 

~ + ~

For the next two days, Mycroft allowed his ideas about Sherlock and Eurus to bubble away in the back of his mind, giving them the freedom to germinate and begin to grow into a plan. To his relief, his former status as a semi-pariah began to resettle onto his shoulders as his college-mates moved on from his break-up with Christina to a newer distraction: the rumoured pregnancy of one of the first-years.

But Mycroft's peace and quiet didn't last long: David Rutherford's last-ditch effort from to throw himself at Mycroft arose the second-to-last day of term.

To Mycroft's chagrin, David managed to track him down to one of his new favourite (clement-weather only) hiding places: the Oxford Botanical Gardens. Mycroft didn't bother holding back a groan at the sight of David making a beeline for him through the perennial borders. Long before his pursuer caught up to him, Mycroft could almost feel the clammy hands of his old “friend” clutching and grabbing at him. Much as he wanted to bolt, Mycroft knew that running was only a short-term solution; the sooner this conversation was over and done with, the sooner he'd have David's delusions back in their cage where they belonged.

To Mycroft's relief, David didn't bother with any false pretence of coincidence in their meeting.

“Amanda said I might find you here.” David waited for Mycroft to grudgingly make room for him on the bench.

“Oh?” Mycroft wondered who else might be involved.

Once David was seated, he was uncharacteristically reticent, especially considering he'd come some way to chase down his quarry. Mycroft wondered if it was a latent good sense telling him Mycroft wouldn't be receptive, or perhaps just second thoughts about the whole thing. Mycroft could only hope for the latter, however unlikely.

“I, um—how are you doing? I saw—”

“Yes, you did, didn't you?” Mycroft interrupted.

“That was—I mean, that must have been horrible for you. How are you doing?”

To Mycroft's discomfort, David had somehow decided that false expressions of sympathy were the path to his regard. If Mycroft had required any further evidence of just how unsuited they were for each other, _this_ would be more than enough on its own.

“I am—” Mycroft hoisted on an expression of false pain, spiced with a soupçon of contrition. “I'm surprised, still. I thought we were doing well. I—misspoke; looking back on it now it's obvious what it was upset her so. She's a very independent woman.” Mycroft said the last with a hint of wistfulness that he hoped would flush David out so that they could finish this farce in time for dinner.

“I don't understand how you can forgive her. It was shit of her, saying that in public. If you ask me, you deserve so much better.”

_But no one asked you._

When Mycroft didn't reply, amateurishly allowing his glee at the situation to show, David continued. “You're well rid of that—”

“I do wonder why you think yourself such an expert on that I might want or need.” 

“I know we've had our ups and downs—”

“We? There's no 'we' here.”

“We've been friends most of our lives,” David protested.

“Our mothers are friends; you and I—are two people occasionally thrown together as a result.”

“What? I've always—”

“Yes, I know. What happened at your mother's party four years ago? That is _never_ happening again.”

David flushed. “I don't understand—”

“No, you don't, and you never will. Let me be as plain as I can be. I. Do. Not. Want. You. Ever since—that unfortunate lapse of sense, I've tried to be kind. I've tried to let you down gently.” Mycroft ignored the threat of sniffling coming from the other end of the bench. Running away in disgust now would let the idiot's hope survive. “But you refuse to see what's in front of you; apparently, there is no hint broad enough for you to catch, so you give me no choice but to be cruel. So be it. I've never wanted you, and I never will. This—stalking campaign of yours has to end. If nothing else, it's bloody—” Mycroft paused to take a deep breath and re-route his argument. “You're demeaning yourself, chasing after someone who doesn't want you.” 

To Mycroft's great relief, the answering protests had come to an end, and he briefly wondered if he should have done all of them a favour and dropped the bomb on David years ago. Oh, well. _Hindsight_, he mused as David took a minute or so to absorb it all.

“You—you bloody great—_hypocrite_,” David sputtered once he'd recovered. “You—you debase yourself for that—bitch, that stupid, ignorant cunt who doesn't deserve you, and you accuse—”

“Don't you _dare_.” Mycroft transformed his shock at David inconveniently finding a spine into a show of righteous fury. “Don't you dare compare your pathetic, deluded obsession with what I feel for—”

“How could you care for her?” David wailed. “You're gay, Mycroft. How can you claim to—? Do you really hate who you are so much? You—You don't need to—”

“Your confirmation bias is showing. And for your information, no, I am not gay. And yes, I do care for Christina. Very much. Not that it's any of your business, but I love her, which, in fact, is nothing like a childish infatuation which never had any chance of turning into anything real for the simple fact that you're too stupid to interest me.”

“But, but—” David gaped. “I know you. I see behind that mask you wear; I've seen who you really are. I know how damaged you are and how you think you have to hide your true feelings—”

“How dare you presume to know what I feel better than I do.” 

He'd had enough. Mycroft stood, then leant down to peer into David's now-tear-streaked face. “The only mask I wore was the one that hid my utter disdain for you all these years.” He straightened and adjusted the cuffs of his coat. “I am not Mr Rochester and you are not Jane Eyre. So do us all a favour: grow up and make yourself a life worth living. If you're very lucky you might even find someone who does want to share it with you.”

~ + ~

It was with a heady, almost nausea-inducing mix of dread and anticipation that Mycroft left Oxford for London for the first part of the term break. A certain levity coloured his mood, as well, now that he'd managed to cast off another millstone from around his neck, adding to the sense of emotional sea-sickness.

Now that he'd finally rid himself of David, Mycroft wondered why he'd dreaded casting him adrift for so long. Counter-balancing this relief was the knowledge he had yet to face the consequences for doing so: a resounding dressing-down from his mother and probably years' worth of recurrent sniping about his foiling her and Elaine Rutherford's dynastic partnership ambitions for their sons.

But for the moment he allowed himself to bask a little in the eye of the storm between reclaiming his freedom and the price he'd eventually have to pay for doing so. And in that time he had Rudy to deal with, and the not-insubstantial challenge of convincing his uncle to help Mycroft with his plan regarding Sherlock and Eurus.

As the train pulled out of Didcot on its journey to Paddington, Mycroft resolved that if nothing else, he was going to enjoy _this_ term break. He felt as though for the last six months he'd been racing through a burning building while carrying a fifty-pound child. With exams coming up he needed to ensure he was at his best, and returning to Merton more exhausted than he'd left (as had happened at Christmas) was hardly the way to go about it. So it was with a slightly hopeful trepidation that Mycroft arrived at his uncle's flat.

“Mycroft,” his uncle greeted him at the door. “Thank you for making an effort to arrive on time.”

Mycroft wanted to reply, “Thank you for assuming me to be the same emotional age as my brother,” but he held back. He'd suspected Rudy would take the opportunity of his visit to continue reminding him of his uncle's disappointment regarding Christina Martin. But he would have liked to at least get through the door first.

Instead he muttered, “Uncle,” as he passed, not acknowledging Rudy's hint of amusement. To Mycroft's surprise, after the initial ceremonial shot across his bow in greeting, he was left alone for the afternoon. Mycroft rattled around the flat while Rudy was locked away in his office, despite it being Saturday afternoon. 

As it always had, the flat seemed almost entirely unlived in: white walls, marble, and stainless steel, all without so much as a fingerprint or used teacup in sight to indicate a passing presence. The flat always made Mycroft think of a show room for a new property development marketed to film stars and successful working class drug dealers. Nothing could be further from Rudy’s public persona as a fustian nobody who’d spent the last thirty years hovering at the back of committee rooms, making himself invisible.

Mycroft gravitated to the library, as he usually did when unable to escape the discomfiting strangeness of the place. Considering the room’s size, it held relatively few books, but along the centre ran the low, flat cabinets that housed Rudy’s prized collection of 18th and 19th-century political cartoons and pornography. Without any purpose other than to kill some time before dinner, Mycroft perused the spines of the one wall of books, to see if there had been any additions since Christmas. Other than a Jeffrey Archer that Mycroft deemed to most likely have been a gift from the author, there was nothing. 

With a sigh, he dropped down onto one of the probably very stylish but uncomfortable chairs that sat facing each other in front of the one window. To distract his superficial perceptions he stared out into the quiet street with its occasional passing nannies and delivery vans, while his main processors tussled with the problem of how he would approach Rudy about allowing him to see his sister.

Mycroft circled around the issue, trying to put himself in Rudy’s shoes to help identify his uncle’s possible blocking strategies. It was a frustrating exercise; Mycroft had difficulty imagining a game where _he_ held most of the high cards.

“Mycroft.”

He turned to see his uncle in the doorway, looking even more peevish than he had earlier.

“Uncle.”

“Daydreaming?” Rudy dropped himself into the facing chair with a faint groan and a wince that Mycroft attributed to the chair. “Why did I allow Mark to convince me to buy these awful things?” Rudy muttered as he shifted back and forth in a futile effort to find a position that was less likely to elicit a trip to a chiropractor.

“Mark?”

“The decorator.”

Mycroft wanted to blurt out, “You _paid_ someone to create this?” but instead said, “The perils of choosing style over substance.”

“I don’t spend much time in here.”

Mycroft thought that a weak defence, but the last thing he needed was to argue over something as meaningless as décor, so decided not to pursue it.

They stared across their almost-touching knees and Mycroft wondered what had driven his uncle to seek him out, but remain silent. He wondered if Rudy wanted him to take the lead, and was giving him space to make a fool of himself and give the man something to beat Mycroft over the head with.

“I’m sorry to be underfoot; it’s obvious you’re in the middle of some crisis or other,” Mycroft opened with to see if Rudy would bite.

“Not a crisis, per se. But there has been fall-out.”

Mycroft’s mind rolled its eyes. _Not this again_.

“You’ve put me in something of a bind, boy,” Rudy continued. “I’m not the only one with concerns about how your scheme played out.”

“I thought Bevan said—”

Rudy made an irritated flick of his hand that said what he thought of Bevan’s assessment. “It was not a test of your ability to garner a _result_, but to determine how you would go about doing so. Technique matters. Judgement matters.”

Stung by the implication he possessed neither, Mycroft struggled to not sound petulant. “Style over substance? I discern a trend.”

“Our preference is for people who can solve problems without creating more problems.” Mycroft fumed silently at the resumed rebukes. “Any idiot can win by metaphorically bombing their opponent back to the Stone Age; tactical mastery entails defeating an enemy in such a way that they think they’ve won.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure if he was meant to take that as a boast, an instruction or a challenge. “I can’t imagine tactical mastery is likely when vital information is purposely hidden.”

“The inability to even notice the lacunae in one’s information is hardly praiseworthy.”

“Under the circumstances I think that’s a bit much.”

“The subsequent petulance doesn’t aid your cause.”

“Legitimate commentary about your motives and methods is a far cry from ‘petulance’.”

“Life isn’t fair, and neither is the game.”

_So says the man who rigged it_. “Hence my lack of sympathy for the ‘fall-out’ you claim you’re being forced to deal with as a consequence of your strategic errors.”

“One can only perform to the level of the corps’ weakest member.”

“There is no ‘corps’ uncle; only you, me and your failures.”

Rudy chuckled. “My god, you’re turning into your mother.”

“_Ad hominem_ attacks: the avoidance tactic of a desperate man,” Mycroft replied, transferring a bit of the sting of recognising there might be a hint of truth to his uncle’s words.

Rudy didn’t reply immediately, and the two of them resumed their staring contest. Mycroft could tell that Rudy was wondering why he didn’t just capitulate and admit he’d failed with Christina. He wondered if it had been so long since Rudy had been in Mycroft’s position that he couldn’t remember what it felt like to be the apprentice, forced to fumble in the dark, desperate not to fail, and being set up for failure by the very people who criticised you for failing.

“What are you planning to do about it?” Rudy asked after subjecting Mycroft to half a minute or so to his best reptilian stare.

_You want her so badly, you go out and get her, uncle_. “I’m not in the habit of cleaning up other people’s mistakes.” _Well, other than my parents’ and the less said about that the better_.

“I hate to break the news to you, but that’s going to be your life for the next fifty years.”

_Finally_, Mycroft thought with a mental heave of relief. _ Thank you for the segue_. “Is that what Eurus is: someone else’s disaster you’ve had to clean up?”

“Yes.”

The word was like a stone door to an underground cavern slamming shut, trapping Mycroft alone in the dark armed only with a spoon. “So that’s it? She’s to be locked in a cage until she does the world the favour of dying and frees you from the burden of lying to Sherlock and my parents.”

“Your sister was directly responsible for the deaths of over a dozen people before she reached puberty. Can you imagine what she’s like now?”

“No, I can’t. Because I haven’t seen her in more than seven years.”

Rudy was suddenly very still, as if he’d just now deduced where Mycroft was taking the conversation, and was strangely surprised at this new knowledge. “It’s not going to happen.”

“That’s a remarkably peremptory declaration.”

“It’s the only response you’re going to get.”

Mycroft fumed while the voice at the back of his mind posited the question of why Rudy was suddenly willing to talk about Eurus, after seven years of resisting doing so. “Until when?”

“Until I decide to change my mind. And that time frame is going to keep growing if you insist on taking this tack.”

“I have to see her eventually.”

“I’m not arguing that.”

“The sooner she becomes accustomed to me, the smoother the hand-over will be when it has to happen.”

“That’s a—not insignificant consideration,” Rudy grudgingly conceded and Mycroft sensed his uncle was at least a little pleased he'd made a decent argument. “But now is not the time. She’s—become very volatile recently. Adolescence with none of the ordinary corresponding development in emotional maturity. Only—” Rudy drifted off into some memory he didn’t share, but whatever it was it wasn’t a pleasant one, judging from his frown.

“You think that will come at some point?” Mycroft asked after a few seconds, secretly thrilled at finally getting his uncle to have a serious conversation about her.

“Based on what the majority of the ‘experts’ have said—no. Though, the lack of consensus on just what is the matter with her doesn’t inspire much faith that anyone knows what will happen.”

“So—what next? Your priority—” 

“Why now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you demanding to see her now?”

Mycroft suspected that Rudy had already guessed why; he decided to brazen it out and see what happened.

“You’re not getting any younger, uncle.”

“I’m sixty-two!”

“Yes, less than five years from retirement and the same age your father was when he dropped dead from a stroke.”

“What retirement?” Rudy paused. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well, you know the solution to that. I want to go—”

“No, you don't.”

Mycroft paused to construct a more temperate answer than the first two that came to mind. “I think I'm the best judge of that, uncle.”

Rudy seemed flummoxed by Mycroft's continued push-back, which he thought displayed a remarkable lack of observational skills, as he had been doing it for months.

“Regardless, it may not be possible now.”

“Your masters don't know I'm privy to the fact she's alive?” Mycroft tried not to crow, but seeing as how Rudy's frown deepened, probably had failed. “I can't decide if that's remarkably daring of you, uncle, or just a complete lack of judgement.”

“Of course they know. They're also aware of my plan regarding you and your sister.”

“So that's been decided, has it?”

“It's one of the options we're leaving open. Dependent, naturally, on whether or not you prove yourself capable of taking on that responsibility.” Rudy paused to smooth his feathers. “Everything in this business is _contingent_, boy. The testing never stops; the higher you climb, the more stringent it becomes.”

_Get used to it_, Mycroft heard, and his failure with Christina reared its head, like the pain of a phantom limb.

“I’d have thought you have enough on your plate already with your brother,” Rudy continued into the silence.

“Who you’ve ordered me—more than once—to leave to my parents.”

“As if—” Rudy stopped again, but he didn’t ask the question Mycroft expected him to. All that happened was a slow clench of his jaw that for a moment Mycroft interpreted as his uncle swallowing his words with difficulty. “You’ve given me some food for thought,” Rudy eventually added, and Mycroft was startled by a concession so early in their negotiations. The least he could do was to show a little appreciation and encourage further movement in that direction.

“Thank you for giving the matter your consideration.”

After tense discussion of their plans for the afternoon, the rest of the day and evening were more amiable, given over to good food, wine and conversation. The discussion over dinner focused on professional rather than personal matters, and Rudy’s mood improved as a result, to Mycroft’s relief.

Over the next three days, Mycroft didn’t press his uncle; he’d made his point, and badgering the man would be counterproductive. Instead, Mycroft indulged by letting himself off the leash a bit. 

He occupied himself with long walks, reacquainting himself with old favourite haunts, and—most memorably—an afternoon with a Brazilian couple he allowed to pick him up at the National Portrait Gallery. The physical release had a salutary effect on his mood and was a welcome boost to his self-regard after the battering it had suffered over the previous month. He hadn’t realised just how accustomed he’d become to regular sex, and that he’d missed it. 

The following morning as Mycroft ate breakfast in the dining room, Rudy stopped in the doorway on seeing him.

“Well, there's no need to ask what you got up to yesterday. I hope you were prudent.”

“Yes, uncle, condoms were involved.”

“I meant I hope it was a woman.”

Mycroft's sense of well-being evaporated. Rudy saw it and sighed as he unfolded a napkin on his lap. “You complained bitterly about that necessary charade with the Martin girl, and now you throw away those weeks' work for one mis-judged tumble. I do despair—” 

“It was a couple.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A couple from Rio de Janeiro. And yes, a _married_ couple. Would you like the running commentary?”

“That won't be necessary. At least tell me you didn't allow him to fuck you.”

Mycroft couldn't decide which shocked him more: his uncle saying “fuck” for the first time in living memory, or his uncle implying that he would let another man do that to him. As far as Mycroft was concerned, if ever there was to be any _fucking_ on the agenda, he was most definitely always going to to be the fuck-er, not the fuck-ee. The reminder that Rudy shared his mother's limited imagination in regards to Mycroft's life was disheartening after all these years.

Before Mycroft managed to re-assemble his thought processes and reply, Rudy continued. “I suppose the fact you never gave a moment's thought to the fact you're still under observation and what those people watching might think of you jumping into bed with the first man who crooks a finger at you—”

“It was the wife who did the actual finger-crooking, seeing as—”

“—tells me everything I need to know about your judgement and readiness to take on those responsibilities you intend to claim.”

“What do you mean? They're hardly—”

“Your performance two weeks ago. Your break-up with the Martin girl. I was—the approach you took to ending it indicated a modicum of thought, even if you had missed the entire point of the exercise.” Rudy held up a hand to stifle Mycroft's protests at his uncle's 180-degree turn on the Christina debacle. “No, let me finish. I'm still greatly disappointed you didn't notice the real mission, but considering what you thought the mission was you managed the hand-off well, manoeuvring her into making the actual break. It may very well have saved you; I imagine you thought it would buy you more time before having to go through that charade again.”

Rudy paused for Mycroft to numbly nod.

“But—I'm seeing a disturbing trend with you, my boy: failures in execution. I still have no idea what to think of it, and—this most recent stumble doesn't exactly instil faith in your ability to see something through to the end. If you can't even deduce where the end of the game is—”

“I don't see any point in re-hashing the situation.”

“You wouldn't, would you?”

Mycroft silently fumed; the fact he had no leg to stand on to defend himself from Rudy's assertions was what made them so frustrating.

“I'll be honest with you, boy; I'm of two minds as to where we go from here.”

Mycroft felt the blood drain from his face. Did his uncle mean—was he being cut loose? Before he'd even started?

“Don't be an idiot,” Rudy rebutted Mycroft's silent deduction.

“What am I supposed to think?” Mycroft croaked, his voice finally returning.

“It's not the failures that disturb me as much as the criminal waste of potential I see every time you make a bone-headed mistake like that.”

“And you were without flaws at twenty-one?”

“Far from it; but you—outstrip me by magnitudes. You—I've begun to think I'm not the person to guide you.”

“And what—”

“But I recognise that your sister will bind us together for the near future, regardless.”

Mycroft recognised the slight shift in Rudy's tone. He was backing down, and for the first time Mycroft began to feel a little hope that he might just have convinced the man to take him to see his sister.

Rudy was watching him, his usual hawk-like stare containing a hint of something that Mycroft was shocked to realise might be _wistfulness_.

The sight was disturbing. Evidence of the tender emotions, much less _sentiment_, from his uncle set off alarms in Mycroft's head. Was the man losing his mind? Perhaps this was the real reason. But if Rudy was willing to indulge in nostalgia or (dare Mycroft even hope) a guilty conscience for the way he'd been manipulating Mycroft for the last six months, then now was the time to give him a gentle push.

“Do you know to whom I—” 

“Perhaps.”

“Does he—”

“She.”

“Oh.” Mycroft didn't like the sound of reporting to a woman. Not that he possessed any of the common prejudices that women were unsuitable for governance, but the recognition that any woman in Rudy's field would not be in a position of significant power. And if so, his advancement would be hindered by his association with a low-flier from the start. “Does she know about Eurus?”

“No. We'd have to address that at some point—”

Mycroft wanted to interject, “Now. We'd need to address that _now_, before you fob me off,” but held his tongue. 

However, Rudy must have sensed the words as he sighed through a suddenly sour expression. “I suppose you'll be getting your way after all. I hope for both our sakes you don't regret it.”

Mycroft saw through his uncle's protestations; it had been Rudy's intention to give in all along. He wondered if the purpose of the sham complaints had been to make Mycroft feel as if he'd finally won the argument.

~ + ~

After five days of increasingly-agitated waiting and a growing belief that Rudy would change his mind, Mycroft finally was on his way to see Eurus.

The trip involved a flight to western Scotland, then an uncomfortable helicopter flight over the north Atlantic that had Mycroft fearing for his life with every judder and jump of the rackety machine which, he couldn't help but recall, had the aerodynamics of a brick if the engine were to fail.

Over the course of the trip, Rudy's grim countenance eventually began to infect Mycroft's initially jubilant mood. After having finally got his way for once, the long silent journey gave him entirely too much time to think about what he was trying to achieve. The more time he invested in second-guessing himself, the less sure he was about what exactly his goal was in adventuring out into the middle of nowhere in search of—what, exactly? Reconciliation? Retribution? Assurance that his aims weren't a fantasy?

The further from land they flew, the more adrift Mycroft's mind became. With Eurus so much at the forefront of his mind, he allowed the memories—which he ordinarily worked so hard to suppress—to arise from the darker corners of his mental archives. Images flashed back from the past like the pages of a turning rolodex: Eurus standing all alone in the graveyard, silhouetted against a burning Musgrave as their parents fussed over Sherlock and Mycroft waited at the end of the drive for the fire brigade; Eurus's obsession with their father's 8mm film camera, always behind it instead of in front from the time she was old enough to convince their father she could hold it; Eurus on the shore, her eyes consuming everything in front of her as she watched Mycroft teach Sherlock how to swim; Eurus always watching Sherlock, regardless of who else was present and whatever was going on.

That should have been a warning. But—_hindsight_, Mycroft mused, bitterly. He knew he shouldn't beat himself up for missing, as a child, what the adults around him hadn't been able to or hadn't wanted to see. But the echoes of those days still had the power to hurt, like old skewers blunted through overuse on the same bit of flesh. 

Escaping from his memories, Mycroft watched Rudy staring out the window with no more expression than if he were watching the streets of Westminster flash by on any ordinary weekday commute.

“How often do you come out here?”

“I receive monthly reports from the governor.”

“That's not what I asked.”

Rudy turned his attention properly to Mycroft. “I come out here as often as necessary. In the beginning, about once a fortnight; then for a few years once a quarter. Now—about eight or ten times a year.” His peevishness was obvious, even through the noise of the rotors.

“So you don't care—”

“The sister you knew is gone, Mycroft. I appreciate your family feeling on the matter, but in my position I can't afford to think of her as such. Sentiment is very high on the list of weaknesses you simply cannot afford once you pass inside those walls.” Rudy turned instructively to look out the window, and Mycroft followed his uncle's gaze.

He felt the blood drain from his face. _Alkatraz in the north Atlantic_. The blank, sea-grey edifice jutted out of the rock face like a massive canker; there could be no doubt it had been built as a prison, unapologetic in its brutality.

“It's what it needs to be,” Rudy muttered with a hint of pre-emptive dismissal, then glanced away as Mycroft managed to tear his eyes away from the monstrosity they were approaching. He imagined Eurus, eight years old, huddled in the corner of a dank, dark, windowless cell a hundred feet below the surface, immured in a subterranean Bedlam. He knew he was letting his imagination get away from him, but the overt aggressiveness of the building, combined with the obvious physical and technological security measures, would inspire the mind of any observer towards the gothic and grotesque, he reasoned.

In reality, it was all very efficient. Clean and impersonal, clinical and regimented. Banal, as long as you pushed to the back of your mind what the place was.

The quiet was disconcerting after the 60 minutes of persistent, physical, muffled din of getting there from Scotland. Mycroft barely paid attention to the rounds of administrative faff that Rudy dragged him through as they descended the layers of security to the core of the building.

None of the long corridors of concrete and fluorescent lighting made much of an impression on Mycroft until they were in the antechamber outside his sister’s cell. While Rudy spoke to the guards’ commander, Simes, Mycroft performed a slow 360° turn in the small room: more brushed concrete, steel, fluorescent light and cameras. And guns. The guns he saw everywhere around him, more than anything, were what gave Mycroft the first inkling of what he might be getting himself in for. Simes, then Rudy, and then Mycroft, passed through the airlock-like mechanism, and then they were in the outer area of Eurus’ cell.

It was disconcertingly like the reptile house at the London Zoo: on one side of the glass a brightly-lit, Spartan space setting off its contained display, and on the other side, in the dark, the watchers consuming the dull spectacle of an adolescent girl staring back at them.

Eurus’ “room” was bare but for a bed and a small chest of drawers. Mycroft didn’t want to ask why. She was sitting, Indian-style, at the end of her bed, the book she'd been reading still perched open on her crossed calves. Mycroft was startled to see her so much older—which was ridiculous, he acknowledged as he watched her answering stare slide from Rudy to him. He was capable of the arithmetic necessary to calculate how old she was and what that might mean, but the physical reality of it was still a shock.

Eurus carefully placed the open book face down on her coverlet, stood, and purposefully walked to the centre of the room. The action had a hint of the rote to it, and Mycroft wondered if this was required of her when she had visitors. Her eyes never broke from his as she moved, though her expression was still unchanged from the moment they’d appeared in the ante-chamber.

And then she smiled, a brilliant, quicksilver slash across her face that was much more disturbing than the eerie blankness. It was her eyes, Mycroft noticed. Her eyes were unchanged from the slightly predatory, unblinking stare. Some misguided psychiatrist obviously had tried to train her into a simulacrum of acceptable behaviour and the result was chilling.

Eurus turned her attention back to Rudy. “Is he my present, uncle? I’ve been _such_ a good girl since you were last here.” 

Mycroft felt gooseflesh rise along his arms at the simpering lisp with which Eurus addressed Rudy. The sound seemed to plant a hook into his brain in order to pull it out through his eye sockets. But instinct told him that to react in any way would be an error fatal to his objective, so he forced himself to watch, impassive.

Rudy replied, “No, this is your brother, Mycroft. You remember—” 

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be my present. And of course I recognised him. He looks just like grandfather Scott.” She turned to Mycroft. “You’d better watch out, big brother, that you don’t become as fat as him. Not that you’d be much of a loss if you dropped dead at 62, Mikey.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. Eurus watched him struggle for words as he wrestled with importunate memories; the deadness in her eyes gradually gave way to a detached curiosity as he forced himself not to squirm under the increasing intensity of her gaze. But a few seconds later she became bored with the lack of overt response and turned back to Rudy.

“You promised me a present, uncle. I don’t think much of the one you brought. It’s boring, and only just smart enough to stay over on your side, but not smart enough to be any fun at all.”

“Well, Mycroft is hardly a present. He wanted to see how—” Eurus slowly turned to face Mycroft again as Rudy spoke. “—you were doing. We decided that someone else in the family—”

“Does Sherlock know I’m alive?”

“No. I’ve told you before. And now is not the time to tell him.”

“You were going to bring me a violin for my birthday.”

“No, I said I would think about giving you another violin. Considering what you did to the last one—”

“It wasn’t good enough. _You_ don’t put up with shoddy things; why should I?”

“I know how to take care of my things—”

“Bored now. Bye,” she interjected, then walked back to her bed, picked up her book and sat down with her back to them.

Mycroft met Rudy’s resigned gaze and dismissive shrug with a frown. 

“I didn’t come empty-handed,” Rudy addressed to the glass.

Mycroft met the information that he was a non-entity in the conversation with a frown he was only partly successful at hiding.

“I have a puzzle for you,” Rudy added to Eurus’ back.

“Your ‘little puzzles’ are presents for you, not me,” she called back without looking up from her book.

Mycroft felt a tiny alarm go off in his mind. The shock of realising what his uncle was up to finally managed to force him past his horrified reaction to the entire scenario. Before Rudy could answer Eurus, Mycroft blurted out, “Then perhaps you could help Sherlock with a problem he’s been trying to solve.” Within half a second of having said the words, Mycroft desperately regretted what he’d done, and hoped Eurus wouldn’t pick up on his miscalculation. But as he had no time machine on hand, he was just going to have to live with the consequences.

Mycroft didn’t allow himself to be distracted by Rudy’s palpable assessing glance; Mycroft knew he had to keep his focus on Eurus. A few seconds later he was rewarded as she sat upright, then looked over her shoulder. Becoming re-acquainted with her dead-eyed, flat stare that had always felt like she could see every thought or impulse in his mind was disconcerting. Then she slowly turned to face him and Mycroft could tell he was going to regret bringing Sherlock into things this early. Eurus closed her book around her finger while she waited for him to elaborate. To his surprise, Rudy remained outwardly indifferent about Mycroft so overtly undermining him during his first visit, and he ruefully wondered if this hadn’t been his uncle’s plan all along.

Regardless, Mycroft reconciled himself to following through with the scheme he’d introduced as a (probably misguided) buy-in into his uncle’s game. So he outlined the details as he knew them about Sherlock’s Brighton “serial killer” and the two drowned boys from the same school. As she had so often done in the past, Eurus consumed the tale with her eyes as much as her ears as she watched for every twitch, shift in stance or any near-invisible hint as Mycroft tried to deny her any data about his views on the matter. But she figured them out, anyway.

“You don’t think it’s true,” she said when he finished.

“I don’t think Sherlock is correct. That doesn’t mean the two events aren’t connected.”

She stepped down the intensity of her stare, to Mycroft’s relief, as she engaged with the idea of working on this particular puzzle, assessing the value of his initial offering.

“Come back in a week; I’ll have your answer.” She dismissed them with her turned back and re-opened her book.

“You can’t possibly solve it without more information,” Mycroft protested.

“Well, _you_ couldn’t,” she shot back as she stagily turned a page.

The dismissal seemed clear to Mycroft, but Rudy didn’t budge; he obviously knew there was more to come. The three of them silently waiting for Eurus made the scenario feel even more zoo-like, which was very much not the direction Mycroft wanted his mind to be going.

Waiting, though, gave him the opportunity to give some attention to the environment of his sister’s jail. Simes—despite having mastered the ability to stand perfectly still for long periods of time and therefore disappear into the background—was an increasingly oppressive presence in the back corner of the cubicle. In a flash of insight that chilled him, Mycroft noticed that the man had taken up a position where he’d have a clear shot at Eurus through the glass, and the knowledge rooted Mycroft to his spot. This one observation told him everything he needed to know about Rudy’s opinions on whether or not Eurus had really improved over the years in response to the massive resources that had been expended on containing and “treating” her.

Mycroft glanced to his uncle and wondered what the man was waiting for. Rudy seemed his usual still, observant, relaxed self, but Mycroft recognised he sometimes had difficulty reading the man, especially when his guard was up. A minute or so later Eurus looked coyly over her shoulder at Rudy and said, “You haven’t brought me a present, uncle, so you haven’t earned your treat.” Before she turned back to her book, she winked at Mycroft, who couldn’t help recoiling at the presumed intimacy of the gesture. When he turned to Rudy for his reaction, his uncle just gave him a slight eye-roll, then gestured him out the airlock. 

Once the three of them were back in the corridor, Rudy asked Simes, “How long has that been going on?”

Simes pondered for a second or two. “Richardson was the first to report it. About three weeks ago. I’d have to look in the logs to—”

“No, that’s fine. Has Doctor Preston mentioned it in her briefings?”

“No.”

Rudy sighed. “Thank you, Simes.”

“Will there need to be protocol changes?”

“Yes. A number of them, apparently.”

Mycroft sensed that Doctor Preston was about to be shown the door. 

“I’ll need to speak to Preston, first,” Rudy continued as they headed down the corridor back to the elevator. “But yes, in the interim, no one is to go in there alone with her.”

“Preston won’t like that.”

“That’s too bad for her.”

As they made their way back to the surface, Mycroft wasn’t surprised that Rudy didn’t discuss anything about their visit until they were in the helicopter back to the mainland, secure from the all-pervasive surveillance of Sherrinford and with the flight crew in the next cabin focused on their own duties.

The retreat back through the building had been even more of a blur than their descent. All the new (some of it disturbing) data on Eurus was buzzing around in Mycroft’s head, while his sensibilities chased it around, fruitlessly trying to establish some sort of order, his emotions constantly thwarting their efforts. He doubted it was magnanimity on Rudy’s part that motivated his uncle to leave him to his thoughts, but he was glad of it, nevertheless.

About five minutes after take-off, Rudy broke the tense silence. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but I did warn you.”

_Yes, thank you for your concern_, Mycroft wanted to snipe back, instead asking, “How long have you been using her as an analyst?”

Rudy seemed genuinely surprised at the question, and Mycroft wondered why. Did his uncle think him a complete idiot, as well? Had Rudy assumed that Mycroft would have previously guessed that that was what had been going on?

“I’m not.”

Mycroft snorted. “What about your ‘little puzzles’?”

Rudy made the dismissive wave he always did when presented with irrefutable data that contradicted his worldview. “Oh, those aren’t anything of substance; just some little trinkets to keep her amused and occupied.”

“Trinkets.” Mycroft frowned. “I did notice the complete lack of anything available to her that might provide any kind of intellectual stimulation. Instead, you’re training her to look to you for any kind of intellectual sustenance and in doing so preparing her for a life of servitude, even if you’re not using her as such yet.”

“I can’t decide if your lack of judgement exceeds your hypocrisy. Do you really think it’s wise to encourage an interest in Sherlock’s affairs considering the events that brought her here? Do you think that will help her move past her obsession with her past crimes?”

The validity of the criticism meant it stung all the more, but Mycroft attempted to recover with an offensive strike. “It was my best hope for catching her attention.”

“Do you really think anything that happened in that room wasn’t about you? About trying to dominate you? Regardless, even if your pathetic excuse was valid, it would be an interesting approach for someone who has protested for a decade that his principal goal was Sherlock’s safety.” Rudy was almost rueful by the time he reached the end of his critique. When he was done, he turned his attention to the drinks cupboard, leaving Mycroft alone to wrestle with his thoughts the rest of the way back to Scotland.

~ + ~


	9. A place for everyone and everyone in their place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone (even Harry) gets their say, and very little is resolved.

Mycroft didn’t know what to make of the visit to Sherrinford. The front-of-house portion of his mind made an intellectual judgement—founded on the rationalism that Mycroft told himself was the driver of his thought processes—that Rudy’s caution had, perhaps, been appropriate. Superficially, his mind navigated the fall-out, calmly floating above the emotions engendered by the sight of his sister, which had been roiling below the surface of his mind since the viewing. Regardless of what his superego thought of the matter, though, his id had weighed in with the declaration that they were _never_ going back there again. Of course, Mycroft knew he couldn’t allow the most primitive part of himself to rule his life; that was Sherlock’s game, and their family needed at least one functional adult in the mix.

To Mycroft’s surprise, Rudy largely ignored him for the next two days, leaving early in the morning and returning home late at night. Mycroft saw nothing in the news to suggest the sort of governmental crisis that might be occupying so much of his uncle’s time, so he assumed that these hours might be the norm. The more time he spent in the cold, off-putting flat, the more Mycroft realised he didn’t know his uncle at all well, beyond what Rudy let him see, his mother’s slanders, and the odd snippet of scurrilous family tittle-tattle. 

The importunate childhood memories reawakened by the sight of Eurus were driving him to distraction without other diversions, so Mycroft decided to stop fighting his inability to concentrate on his studies and started spending most of his time out of the flat, as well.

He had no one to talk to about any of it. Asking Harry for advice would entail telling him about the psychopath in his family, so that was out. He had no one to tell him he making too much of it, so he had to find a way past his dilemma himself. 

As the weather had taken a turn for the worst since their return, Mycroft was forced to find indoor recreation. He settled on reacquainting himself with the city’s museums and galleries, and expending much of the remaining portion of his allowance on concert tickets.

His trip to the Sir John Soane’s Museum didn’t go according to plan. After Musgrave, when their father had been making an effort to spend time with his sons on their own, he would take them on days trips up to London. The Soane’s had become Sherlock’s second-favourite, after the Natural History Museum, so they’d visited frequently. 

Within ten minutes of passing through the doorway, Mycroft knew that he had to retreat to more neutral territory. His mind kept throwing up memories of Sherlock dragging their father from one room of oddities to another, Mycroft trailing along behind. Now, every flickering shadow was a curly-haired ten year-old weaving between the displays. For Mycroft, the lurching adrenal spikes in blood pressure were too high a price for the pleasures of revisiting the collection, so he beat a retreat to the rainy streets of Lincoln’s Inn. 

He made his way through the claustrophobic alleys and closes of Holborn, thinking to lose himself in the noise and crowds of the Strand, but they just irritated him even more. Eventually he escaped to the calm of Middle Temple and the Templar Church. Here there were no family memories waiting to grab him unawares; their father had as a young man turned his back on the church that his father, uncle and grandfather had dedicated their lives to and never set foot in a religious building if he could help it. 

After a brief turn around the 900 year-old portion of the building, Mycroft headed back to the newer, 17th-century addition. Wren’s baroque sensibilities were more congenial to him than the medieval austerity of the Round. Besides, his feet hurt and he wanted a pew.

Mycroft forced himself to sit back, relax, and pretend to be listening to the organist tootling away at the far end of the nave. He ignored the few out of season tourists milling about, escaping from the rain.

He was exhausted. Until that day he hadn’t realised just how the events of the last five months had ground him down, and the trip to Sherrinford had apparently pushed him over some sort of mental ledge. If he were a paranoiac, he’d suspect that Rudy had ordered events for this very reason: to make him vulnerable, and test his ability to cope with escalating stress levels. The tantalizing simplicity of blaming someone else didn’t mesh with the facts, of course; Rudy had genuinely not wanted to take him to Sherrinford, that much had been obvious from the start.

Regardless, it had all become a bit much: his future career dependent on a demeaning farce; Sherlock going completely around the bend, trying to kill himself with narcotics and petulance; then to top it all, his parents’ inability to acknowledge, much less appropriately respond to—anything, really. And now Eurus. The reality of her, which Mycroft couldn’t have been able to imagine on his own, was something he felt he had only the slightest fingertip grasp on. The building pressure coming at him from every direction was starting to make him feel compressed and combustible. But as tempting as a good old-fashioned blow-up might be, now was really not the time.

In an effort to obtain a bit of a respite from his worries, Mycroft decided to read the letter from Harry that had arrived in the post just as Mycroft was leaving the flat that morning. As he opened it, he noticed that it was thicker than was usual for Harry’s letters, and a premonition of why caused his heart to sink.

_Mycroft,_

_Apologies for the long radio silence. After a fair amount of Army-typical faff, I’m back in Londonderry. Mother, Father and Suzanne sent me off with a bang: dinner at La Tante Claire. I think it took me a week to recover, but was well worth it. As wonderful as French food is, it’s death to a fitness regime. I’m not sure how Father survived, considering the state of his ticker (or so his doctor says – the old man’ll probably bury us all)._

_LD is—as it has been. Not much has changed in the six months since I was here last. Perhaps a bit quieter, and that’s to the good as far as I’m concerned, though we’re not letting our guard down by any means. _

_I imagine you’re well, as always, and looking forward to getting through exams. I can’t imagine you’re anywhere near as panic-stricken as I was facing down the prospect of that last great hurdle before the real world. But then, I’m just a duffer and not fit for anything more intellectual than soldiering._

Mycroft snuffed quietly in resignation; Harry being self-deprecating usually presaged one of his fumbling critiques or an attempt to give Mycroft advice, neither of which he was in the mood for. He disliked the fact that Christina was coming between them still, even by second hand, though she was out of the picture. 

_I imagine you know what I’m writing about (beyond saying hello), and I can imagine the scowl on your face as you read this; you’ve never been good at taking a rebuke, no matter how mild (or deserved). I’m not upset that the two of you didn’t manage to find a way to make it work, but I’d have preferred to hear about it from you rather than that smirking twerp Jasper Fitzhugh. _

_As I’m sure you figured out from the start, I did introduce you and Christina as an attempt at match-making. I’m fond of her, and while she’s very independent I guessed she needed—something. Someone in her life. Someone who could take care of her. I thought, of all the people I knew you'd be the one who could keep up with her, you being the only other genius I know._

_Apparently, match-making isn't my area._

_She’s been uncharacteristically mum about the whole thing (not just the breakup, the entire relationship), which I deduce (heh!) means it ended badly. Don’t worry, she hasn’t said a word against you; as you can imagine, this has stumped me. I'd heard through the grapevine she gave you the push in a rather spectacular fashion, so I suppose you're still licking your wounds. Perhaps the fact her discretion surprises me says more about me than her._

_I don’t like seeing her with Sebastian Moran. I imagine you’ve already heard that Amanda Fitzhugh introduced them. I have no idea what they see in each other. She’s hardly a catch by Moran’s standards and he’s a shit by anyone’s standards. Worse than that, I think he’s fundamentally unsound. Suzanne and her friends all think he's charming, but I think there’s just a bad whiff about him. And yes, I’m being overprotective of someone largely capable of taking care of herself. _

_I’m sorry for wittering on about your ex. I do hope the two of you can remain on civil terms, largely for selfish reasons because I’d hate to have to choose between you. _

_Anyway, I’ve tried your patience long enough. I do hope you’re well and managing to not throttle your uncle due to the prolonged close quarters. To do so would be gauche, though if you can’t help yourself I promise to be a character witness at the trial. _

_Try not to go mad while you not-very-patiently wait for Oxford to let you out to take over the world._

_Your friend,_

_Harry_

All things considered, he'd come off lightly, Mycroft thought. Not that he'd expected an excoriating critique from Harry, but Mycroft hated to upset his oldest friend. He couldn't help questioning Harry's judgement, though; how in heaven's name could he have considered _Christina Martin_ an appropriate partner for him? Regardless, it appeared that disappointing people he cared about was becoming a bit of a trend.

Mycroft carefully folded the letter and slid it back into his jacket pocket. Doing so he caught the eye of a thirty-ish man ambling out of the Round and making a complete hash of trying to look like he'd only just noticed Mycroft in passing. He didn't know what to make of the man's interest: was it a come on? An incompetent agent surveilling him? With a shrug and a scowl, he decided he didn't care. 

Returning to Rudy's empty, silent flat didn't appeal much, but Mycroft was tired of being surrounded by strangers. Mostly, he was tired of feeling exposed.

When he arrived at the flat, he was surprised to find his uncle at home. “Was the tail yours?” Mycroft asked as he tentatively slid into one of the awful library chairs.

Rudy's “What are your plans for this evening?” told him that his uncle either hadn't been paying attention or didn't care about Mycroft's question.

“Why are you home in the afternoon?”

“Have you managed to get any of your papers finished? You don't want to fall behind.”

“Do my results even matter? Aren't I just being set up as your replacement guard dog for my sister?”

Rudy sighed and closed the report he'd been reading. “Are you having second thoughts? It's a bit late in the game if you are.” _And tremendously inconvenient._ Mycroft heard as Rudy returned to his reading.

Mycroft fumed silently for a minute or so; as he looked back on Rudy's words over the last year or so, Mycroft felt his sense of propriety start to fracture. “Has anything you've said about my future been the truth?”

“Would it matter if it wasn't?”

Mycroft's spine snapped back in the chair as if he'd been slapped across the face and a horrible flush of shame arose at having been made such a dupe. He'd thought he'd been prepared for that answer, but hearing it, recognised he hadn't.

Rudy continued to pretend to ignore him while unobtrusively watching for Mycroft's response. He wasn't in the mood for this game, though, and left for the guest room. The desire to lick his wounds in private wasn't a good sign; it dismayed him to realise that the boundaries of his resilience were so narrow. The fright from seeing them loom so close made him instinctively reach out for older, safer territory, which annoyed him.

Mycroft's abiding memory of what might in a certain light have been seen as “hopes” or “ambitions” in his childhood had been simply to get to adulthood. To be the one making the decisions and having the authority to take effective action, rather than just the person that responsibilities fell onto because he was the next cab on the rank and had no one else to fob those responsibilities onto.

He now recognised it as a desire to have authority commensurate with the responsibilities he had been forced to take on. It was heartening to realise that at fourteen he'd been mature enough to recognise both the problem and its solution. Doing so hadn't made a whit of difference to his feelings of powerlessness at the time, though. And it disgusted him that he'd allowed his uncle to send him right back to being that confused and angry fourteen year-old again.

Mycroft had long assumed he was ready for the next stage of his life—and had been impatiently waiting for everyone else to recognise this fact—but now he questioned whether or not that was true. Was his self-assurance a house built on quicksand? Were his self-assertions about the orderly progression of his personal development nothing more than a comforting lie?

The structure of his life had long seemed quite straightforward. The first third of it had been himself, Mummy and Father. Their rather stilted and arms-length relationship had seemed normal, though in retrospect Mycroft now knew it hadn't been. His parents had always felt like strangers, though his father at least had made some effort to connect with his son. By the age of about four, Mycroft had realised that he was a disappointment to his mother, who hadn't wanted the stand-offish, unemotional and self-contained child she'd had. But until the flurry of babies of his mother's early forties, they'd budged along fine. Then Sherlock arrived, and everything changed overnight.

Mycroft had no conscious recollection of having been jealous of Sherlock and Eurus as a result of their parents' obvious preference, but realistically he must have been. It had taken him a year or two, but Mycroft had gradually accepted his new role as big brother and as their mother's attention focused more and more on Eurus—the much long-for daughter, at last—Mycroft somewhat stepped into his parents' shoes with Sherlock. Over that middle third of his life, Mycroft had come to relish the role, perhaps too much for someone still so young.

But the last seven years had been brutal: the horrors of the events leading to Eurus burning Musgrave, then Mycroft forced to expand his role from guide and protector to parent and liar. He'd been hoping that as Sherlock reached adulthood Mycroft would be released from this particular burden. Now, if anything, the situation was deteriorating. The inbuilt entropy of his parents' “solution” was beginning to show, and Mycroft eventually recoiled at the sheer volume of work that would be required to keep the cracks in the structure from blowing apart under the pressure of Sherlock's increasing efforts at destroying it. And all that work was going to fall onto him, of course, while he tried to build his own life.

It wasn't fair. As he sat on the bed in his uncle's guest room, Mycroft fought off the lure of the child's cry, “It's not fair!” with its attendant implied stomping of feet and beating of fists.

Yes, it wasn't. But it was what it was. He felt the weight of the realisation pressing on him, and while he knew he'd eventually find some sort of solution, at the moment he felt as if his brain was being slowly squeezed out his ears.

As the evening encroached, Mycroft stared out the window, his knees tucked under his chin as if he really had regressed to that scared teenager watching his family's life go up in flames. He was being self-indulgent, but at that moment didn't much care.

~ + ~

For the next five days, Mycroft and Rudy engaged in a finely-balanced _pas de deux_ in the spacious flat: Rudy left for the office at about half seven, after which Mycroft emerged from the guest room. In the early afternoon Mycroft would depart and spend the next five or six hours out and about in the town, keeping himself amused. Rudy would return home in the early evening before heading out to his club for dinner. Mycroft would return in the middle evening hours and barricade himself in the library. Rudy would return late, spend an hour or so in the office at the back of the flat, then retire. All told, in the days before Mycroft left for Sussex he only encountered his uncle twice, and once was because the man sought him out to inquire as to his travel plans.

Twice over those five days Mycroft briefly wondered why he didn't feel guilty about treating his uncle's home like a posh squat. After everything he'd done to keep Rudy's favour for the past three years it hardly seemed rational to possibly throw away all that work now. But when he did see his uncle, Rudy hardly seemed upset at the current arrangement. If anything, he was more amiable than ever, and Mycroft wondered if he was now seeing Rudy's public, professional persona due to Mycroft having been ejected beyond his uncle's own personal pale, from the comforts of family to the hinterlands of junior colleague.

It was a mild, simmering on the back burner concern, as Mycroft waited on the platform at Victoria for the train to Amberley and the dreaded confrontations with his mother and brother. His Christmas fantasy of ending the charade of dutiful son had been unknowingly sacrificed the moment he demanded to see Eurus. Rudy should not have agreed, Mycroft saw now. 

A part of Mycroft's mind was _over_ Rudy. He recognised the petulance behind the sentiment, though he avoided examining over-much the hurt that was behind it. The lies, the manipulation—they were part and parcel of the world he wanted to enter, so they bothered him less than the sense of having been discarded. He'd not only been betrayed but orphaned, in a way. It had become obvious to Mycroft over the recent visit that he'd come to rely too much on Rudy over the last few years, and now it was time to go it alone. 

His uncle was too valuable to just jettison, though; there was still professional value in the association, so until his uncle ceased to be so, Mycroft knew he had to swallow his pride and make an effort to maintain at least cordial relations.

As eye-opening as the trip to see Eurus had been, Mycroft had to grudgingly admit that carrying the burden of Eurus for the family wouldn’t have been easy for Rudy. The magnitude of those secrets, of just how fundamentally damaged she was, must have resonated with him in some way. The opposing counsel in Mycroft’s mind argued, however, that Rudy’s response to that challenge seems to have been to spend the last seven years grooming her as an Intelligence asset. Mycroft’s internal defence counsel posited that perhaps this had been the cost levied by the government as recompense for the cost of securing Eurus rather than simply disposing of her.

Over the last few weeks it had becoming increasingly obvious to Mycroft that one of his principal skills in the future would be reconciling himself to deals with the devil. Such was the cost of exercising power, he surmised.

In regards to the rest of his family, Mycroft didn't know what he was going to do. He knew what he _had_ to do, but he really didn't want to have to do it. Not that that had ever mattered, he mused with a grimace as he watched the heaving masses of commuters swarming through Clapham Junction. Oh, how he _hated_ this journey! And not just because of what was waiting for him at the end of it.

The prospect of trying to discuss anything of substance with his mother made his stomach churn. And while the trip to Sherrinford had laid to rest any notion Mycroft might have had of telling Sherlock about their sister, as doing so would cause their entire familial house of cards to come tumbling down, he had to get his parents to at least allow him the breathing space to deal with her by taking the Sherlock situation seriously. This was the only chance he had to dedicate the time and energy to figuring out what his response would be to what he'd seen at Sherrinford. He didn't think he would have any problems erecting the bulwarks necessary to fend off his mother's delusion that it was all somehow his fault, now that he had stopped beating himself up about it, so he'd at least started down the path to the solution.

Regardless that the years of lies, combined with Sherlock’s developing nose for sniffing them out, was having real consequences for his little brother’s stability and mental health. Sherlock’s alienation from the rest of the family meant that if Eurus was back in his life, he'd grab on to her like a false lifeline and within hours be entirely under her sway, as he had been when they were children. Mycroft wanted to delay that catastrophe as long as he could, to give Sherlock time to (if possible) develop defences against their sister’s manipulations, which didn’t seem to have suffered from lack of opportunity during her incarceration.

The second problem, of course, was that having Eurus restored to Sherlock would also mean his suppressed memories of Musgrave being restored to him, as well. Mycroft didn’t want to think what the result would be of having all those memories come flooding back: what Eurus had (probably) done to Victor, her obsession with tormenting Sherlock for weeks afterwards, Sherlock’s desperate search for “Redbeard”, and the destruction of their home. Even if Sherlock had been in a fit state of mind it would be horrible to watch his brother go through that again. In the current circumstances, it would be unconscionable.

Mycroft knew he shouldn’t dwell on those days, but the memories of her insidious little song, Sherlock’s inability to ignore her, his plaintive cries through the fields and woods around Musgrave as he desperately sought out his friend, and their parents’ helplessness in the face of their daughter’s madness made him angry and sad in equal measure, overlaid with a helpless lethargy.

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant idea, having to choose between the welfare of his sister and his brother, but he didn’t have the resources to take care of both of them. It was obvious that his role as family secret keeper was going to persist, though, as he tried to hold his family together by holding them apart from each other. The thought alone was exhausting.

If he were to have any hope of finding a balance between those competing demands he would need to find a way to take control over all the elements of the puzzle. Rudy would be the most difficult in the short-term but he'd eventually remove himself from the game, leaving the field open for Mycroft to finally take over. 

By the time the train pulled into Amberley station, Mycroft knew what he had to do. The mess that had been buzzing around in his head was starting to coalesce into a plan, which heartened him a little. He wasn't even overcome with dread at the sight of the family Volvo in its usual spot, his father just barely visible in the shadows of the nearby beech tree.

Barely paying attention to what was going on around him, Mycroft allowed himself to float along with the tide of familiar greetings, the same questions that his father always asked as he tucked Mycroft's bags into the back of the car, the little rituals of reassurance behind the meaningless nattering that really meant _Have you changed? / No, Father, I have not changed._ that Mycroft could see stretching into the future until his parents' deaths.

~ + ~

To his surprise, Mycroft found Sherlock loafing around in the kitchen; it was the middle of term at Marlborough. When his mother informed him that they were keeping Sherlock at home until the end of the year, Mycroft was barely able to hold back his opinion on her sacrificing Sherlock’s education for the sake of her passing fancy for a spot of parenting. Instead, he resolved that he would do what he came to Sussex to do, then get the hell out as soon as Merton reopened for term.

As Mycroft expected, relations between him and his parents were tense. His mother largely ignored him, vacillating between pretending he wasn't there and pointedly talking to everyone else around him. Mycroft, his mother, and Sherlock revolved around each other through the house, like a three-armed weather clock, his father in the middle trying to stay out of everyone’s way while still pretending everything was fine. His father seemed transfixed by the disheartening challenge of trying to broker some sort of peace within the family without alienating any of them. For the first 24 hours, Mycroft felt a little sorry for his father; it was obvious the man was trying, but it was just as obvious that his fumbling fits-and-starts efforts, like a backfiring car with a broken clutch, weren't going anywhere.

Sherlock, of course, watched this all from various corners, silently amused by the evolving tableaux of Mycroft's implied dressing-down. For such a verbose family, the heavy near-silence encapsulating the house was as surprising to Mycroft as it was stifling. The rising emotional pressure over those first three days presaged a blow-out that he knew would be distasteful and useless. Regardless, his mother would demand her rights to eventually let herself off the rein and tell him exactly what she was thinking. One of the truest measures of just how little his mother understood him, he thought, was her belief that he somehow needed telling. In his more rebellious moments, he contemplated countering with the admission he'd overheard her conversation with his father Christmas evening. Though he did wonder: was the prospect of her replying that she didn't care the real reason he didn't confront her?

To Mycroft's even greater surprise, Sherlock seemed content to let Mycroft swing in the breeze without any added pelting from him. At least Sherlock didn't seem high, though Mycroft recognised that based on the events of the last seven months he might not be the best judge of the state of his brother's sobriety.

All in all it was awful, and Mycroft felt as if he were in some holding pattern, waiting with bated breath through the Phony War for the attack he knew would come.

The morning of Mycroft's fourth day at home dawned unseasonably bright and warm, so after breakfast, he escaped to the blasted tree in the wood behind the back garden. He prepared for a long escape, with a novel, a fried egg and chutney sandwich and a thermos of tea to tide him over until lunch. He didn't know whether he should be surprised when Sherlock tracked him down an hour later, roughly shoved him aside on the makeshift bench in front of the tree, and sat.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes; Mycroft's eyes passed over the same words over and over again, waiting for his brother to break the ice.

“How's your girlfriend?” Sherlock asked once he'd apparently tired of staring back down the path toward the house.

“Gone.”

“You killed her? That seems a bit excessive.”

Mycroft started, then chuckled. “No, she threw me over for the son of an earl.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Why were you going out with someone that stupid?”

“She wasn't stupid. Just—I don't know. Things were fine—and then they weren't.” Mycroft rubbed his forehead; keeping straight all the various sets of lies he had going on at the same time was giving him a headache. “Can we please not talk about this?”

“Sure.” Sherlock shrugged, dragging the toe of his trainer in the dirt for a few seconds. “Don't know why you bothered. You've never been any good with girls.”

Mycroft snorted. “So says Sherlock Holmes, expert on the female of the species.” He paused while he pondered explaining the real reason for Christina, then decided not to. “Other people have—compensations.”

“What?” Sherlock glanced up at him. “Oh—sex.” He grimaced and Mycroft laughed. “Don't knock it until you try it. In at least three years,” Mycroft added with false gravity.

“Hypocrite. You didn't wait until you were eighteen.”

“No, and look what a mess that turned out to be.” Mycroft was still waiting for his mother's excoriation on his having the temerity to overthrow her and Elaine Rutherford's dynastic plans. He knew it would be on his mother's “to do” list, though probably ranked well below a long list of other minor slights blown out of proportion.

“Are you going to tell Mummy about her?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“Make sure I'm there.”

Mycroft turned to watch a smirk make a brief appearance on Sherlock's face. “I make no promises, as the timing is likely to be spontaneous and strategic.”

“Not that your promises are worth anything,” Sherlock muttered, returning his attention to his feet.

Mycroft sighed, with a hint of drama. “The world is not designed solely for your benefit, little brother. Or mine. One of the greatest disappointments of adulthood is the realisation that casting aside the powerlessness of childhood comes at the cost of many of its freedoms.”

“Adulthood's sounding less appealing by the minute.”

“Adulthood has its own freedoms. But unlike those of childhood, they have to be earned.”

“Small, but not insignificant, detail—”

“Not for people like us, Sherlock. Properly marshalled, our minds and talents will always put us ahead of ordinary people. We move among them, but can never be one of them. Not that one would want to.” Mycroft shivered at the idea.

“Yet you've indulged.”

“A temporary necessity.”

“A temporary necessity _with compensations_.” 

“Yes, well, _compensations_,” Mycroft admitted ruefully. “Regardless, ordinary people can never be anything but a disappointment to people like us.”

“You are such a snob.”

“Tell me: how many ‘friends’ have you made at school?”

“That doesn’t count; everyone knows the posh are inbred morons.”

“To ordinary people, you and I are posh, so be careful how you denigrate the entire class.”

“That’s—” 

“Stupid, yes; class-based assumptions always are. Uninformed. Judgemental. Oblivious. Shall I go on?”

Sherlock didn’t reply other than to deepen his sulk, so Mycroft continued.

“The vast majority of people are either stupid or vulgar. Most of them are both. And that has nothing whatsoever to do with ‘class’ or ‘intelligence’ or even educational attainment.”

“And you wonder why I take drugs,” Sherlock mused.

“No, I don’t, actually.”

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge the reply. Mycroft wondered if his brother was listening or had unexpectedly guessed what it would be.

“Mummy hasn’t figured it out.”

“Our mother’s observational skills are rather specialised, and do not encompass anything that contradicts her preconceptions.” Mycroft paused for a moment to mentally catch his breath before grabbing the advantage Sherlock had given him. “I know you don’t want—” 

“Shut up, Mike.”

“No, I will not—”

“Gawwwwd!” Sherlock wailed in fake distress, clutching at his head as if trying to prevent it from exploding out of sheer annoyance. “Mummy’s been over this about forty times since I got home.”

“This can’t go on, you know.”

“Why not? It’s none of—”

“Because you’re going to kill yourself. And even if you don’t, you’re wasting your talents—”

“So? I thought I was the family idiot.”

“You are the family idiot, as you continue to prove every time you stick that garbage in your body. But you’re still miles beyond pretty much everyone else on this benighted planet. And you cannot pretend to me that you’re suicidal,” Mycroft scoffed.

“How would you know? It’s not like you know anything about people, being made of nothing but gears, pulleys and subcutaneous flab.”

“Shall I assume you’re still using? Considering you’ve regained your preferred place at the centre of everyone’s attention, I don’t see the point any more.”

“You’re still jealous? God, talk about needing to grow up.”

“I take it from your refusal to answer the question, that my assumption is correct.”

“Mummy’s become quite the little sniffer dog in her approaching dotage. She should rent herself out as a truffle hound—”

Ignoring his brother’s ranting digression into how their parents had refused to let him out of their sights for the last month in an effort to keep him from overdosing again, Mycroft braced himself for his last attempted siege on his brother’s lack of coping skills.

“Sherlock—I understand the frustrations of school—”

“No you don’t. You loved it there; you're a born toady.”

“—but you’re going to have to develop some other way of coping.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why should I have to ‘cope’? ‘Coping’ is for boring, ordinary people, and you just blathered on about how I wasn't ordinary. So. Besides, anger is much more fun.”

“But accomplishes nothing.”

“Anger is its own reward.”

Mycroft sighed. What argument could he make to counter that attitude? It was obvious he wasn't going to make any headway against Sherlock's petulant delusions.

The two of them sat in mutually uncomprehending silence for a minute or so. Mycroft unwrapped his sandwich, roughly tore it in half, and held out one piece to Sherlock. Without taking his eyes off the trees in front of him, Sherlock took it and began to eat. When they were each done, Mycroft poured out the tea and they shared it, passing the cup between them until it was gone.

Wary of disturbing their fragile semblance of peace, Mycroft weighed up the probability of manoeuvring Sherlock into a proper talk again, away from their parents, before his return to Oxford. He didn't want to disturb the current (prickly, silent) amity, but recognised he might not get another chance.

“Do you remember the conversation we had at Christmas? Where you asked me if I'd ever wondered if Mummy had wanted one of us to be a girl?” Mycroft started, quietly, in the hope Sherlock wouldn't misinterpret the question as an attack and stomp off.

Sherlock scowled. “No.”

“Yes, you do.”

“As everyone has so pompously pointed out, I did spend Christmas pretty much wrecked.”

“Based on my recollections, that does appear to have been one of your more sober moments.”

“So?” Sherlock snapped and Mycroft resisted the urge to grab him by the throat and shake him while Sherlock sneered, “I'm assuming you have a point to make?”

Mycroft did sometimes wonder if Sherlock eviscerating his memories was the reason why he was still stuck as a childish shit. Perhaps there was some requisite minimum weight of experiences and memory necessary for emotional advancement beyond the infantile. “Do you really think you're a disappointment to her?”

“Everyone's a disappointment to her. She's in a permanent state of regret and recrimination; probably has been since she got preggers with you and she had to abandon her supposedly glittering future. Are you still nursing that delusional grievance that she targets you alone for her—”

“You've been spoilt since the day you were born, Sherlock. And you can't criticise her for being disappointed that her favourite has decided to throw his life away.”

“If you're so concerned about me 'throwing my life away' then bloody well do something about it?”

“That's rich. As if I'm responsible for your horrible decision-making.”

“You and Mummy, all the lies—”

“Oh, God, not this again.” It was times like this that made it almost impossible for Mycroft to believe that Sherlock was now the same age he'd been when Eurus had killed Victor, and Mycroft had been forced into premature adulthood. The sight of his brother's flushed, almost feverish petulance was as disheartening as it was infuriating, and the sense of helplessness Mycroft felt in the warehouse on the day of Sherlock's overdose began to rise up in the back of his mind. He shoved it out of his way as he barrelled back into the fray. “I have neither the time nor the inclination to indulge your self-pity.” 

“I notice you're not denying it,” Sherlock sniped.

“Denying what?”

“That you and Mummy have cooked up some sort of plan to never tell me the truth about anything—”

“While it's true that paranoia is one of the expected side-affects of drug use, it usually—”

“There you are, at it again. Are you even capable of answering a direct question?”

“Are you capable of seeing anything in the universe beyond your own nose? Are you still that fundamentally immature?”

“Why bother growing up? Being the adult's always been your job. It's not like this family's capable of supporting more than one.”

“Yes, of course, silly me for forgetting it's my destiny to be a beast of burden for the rest of you—” 

“Oh, stop griping. You love it—”

“No, Sherlock, I really don't—” 

“Maybe Rudy'll hand over all his goodies over to you when he retires from the job. That flat could be liveable if it were gutted—” 

“Or you could just grow up and take care of yourself—” 

“Saving you the burden of caring. Which is apparently too much to ask—” 

“I'm never going to stop caring.”

“Bully for you.”

“Regardless of what you do.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“No. You'd be best served if you stopped thinking of life as a competition with me—”

“Because I'll always lose—”

“No, because there's no game in play.” Mycroft took a deep breath and calmed his tone. “Become yourself, Sherlock, whatever that is. There's no need to chase my wake, or waste yourself on something as low as spite.”

Mycroft was glad to see Sherlock at least didn't have a quip to fire back at that suggestion. He could only hope the words had somehow managed to penetrate his brother's drug and insecurity-addled brain, and Mycroft sent up a silent prayer to the gods he didn't believe in that they might take hold and begin to grow. 

~ + ~

Mycroft spent the rest of the week in a fog of exhaustion. While he was glad that he’d at least had the chance to talk with Sherlock—and his brother hadn’t stomped off in the middle of the conversation—the new status quo didn’t make him feel much better. He knew the more significant mountain to climb would be the coming showdown with his mother and the battle with his own anger as he fought the urge to confront her about what he'd overheard at Christmas.

Being largely ignored by her since his arrival meant he’d come in for less overt criticism than was the norm. However, it did put a considerable strain on everything that happened in the house. The more defiant aspects of his nature wanted to deny her the scrap she was obviously trying to provoke, but he knew he’d eventually give in, if for no other reason than that it would give him the chance to vent at her a little for her irresponsible behaviour over Sherlock.

To his surprise, his father retreated from trying to play peacemaker between his wife and eldest child. Mycroft wondered if this was a newly-developed survival instinct on his father’s part, or evidence that even his father had turned his back on him and he was on the brink of being cast out of the family entirely.

Mycroft knew he had to be the one to grasp the nettle and just get the argument over with. But the prospect filled him with—not exactly dread, but a profound mental and emotional exhaustion. Between Rudy and his mother, it felt as though he'd been fighting his way out of corners for months.

Two days after his conversation with Sherlock, the weather changed to sleeting rain and, unable to escape outside, the members of the household reverted to their more usual mutual avoidance strategies. In the mid-afternoon, while his father and Sherlock were at the supermarket, Mycroft braved the kitchen and the stifling tension that filled the house in search of coffee, recognising that his mother would likely be lurking there.

He stopped just inside the kitchen door. By the way his mother’s shoulders stiffened, he could tell she knew it was him behind her.

“Mummy,” he murmured as he crossed to the refrigerator.

“Mycroft.” She paused and while he searched the contents of the refrigerator for something—Sherlock’s confiscated drugs, a kilo of finest Belgian chocolate, a bottle of Islay, _anything_ that might help him get through the next four days, he tuned his mental antennae in her direction, on the lookout for signs of impending attack.

“I’m glad you’re spending time with your brother.”

_And there’s the opening salvo._ “When are you allowing him to return to school?”

“He's not a prisoner; if he wanted to to back, he'd be there right now—” 

“So you're letting him bunk off and loaf around here for the rest of the term.”

His mother turned to face him, her expression dismissive as she dried her soapy hands. Before she could start rolling out her weak justifications, Mycroft continued. “Before, you acknowledged that this wasn't the place for him, that he'd go mad in a week—”

“Some of us are capable of admitting when we're wrong, and being flexible enough in our thinking to change our minds.”

“Kowtowing to Sherlock's whims isn't sensitivity or graciousness.”

She just stared at him for a heartbeat, obviously on the point of firing back with her usual waspishness, then she seemed to slightly collapse inwards. She took two slows steps to the kitchen table and sat heavily. “I don't know what you want from me, Mike. Nothing I do is ever good enough for you.”

“It's not a pleasant feeling, is it?”

She ignored him, staring ruefully out the window. “Other people are capable of being right sometimes, even when they disagree with the great Mycroft Holmes. I try to not blame myself for how you—_judge_ so harshly. Is there anyone in your life good enough for you? Perfect enough?”

_I learnt from the best._ “I'm not the subject at hand; we need to discuss your plans for Sherlock.”

“I know you think we're incompetent, but Sherlock ultimately isn't your problem to solve.”

“You and Father practically abandoned him when Eurus was born, when you finally got the girl you were desperate for. You made him my responsibility—”

“We did no such thing. But I'm glad to hear you finally admit how much you resented her.”

“I never resented her.”

“Yes you did. And you resented how close they were. Father and I always knew—”

“That wasn't closeness; that was Eurus using Sherlock as a lab rat.”

“I've never been able to figure out why you turned out to be such a spiteful boy. I never taught you to be. You felt excluded; they were so close and they cut you out.”

“No, Mummy, I never wanted to be one of her subjects.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Mycroft paused. This avenue was fruitless; nothing was going to result but bickering, so he switched tacks. “Do you remember how she used to watch whenever someone spoke to Sherlock? How she would count the seconds he spent talking to them, how she was so jealous any time he showed any partiality for anyone not her? That's why she killed Victor Trevor.”

“There's no evidence she—”

“Oh, get a grip, Mummy! What do you think happened? That he was stolen by gypsies? Disappeared in a puff of smoke? She could never stand for Sherlock to give anyone else any attention but her. She thought Sherlock was her property and his affections for anyone else were entirely at her discretion. Victor was doomed the moment Sherlock chose him as his friend.”

“Stop trying to make her sound like a monster. She was just a little girl.”

“She was a murderer. Technically a mass murderer, all before the age of ten. She tried to kill us all, and yet—” Mycroft didn't know what else he could say to shift his mother's obstinate obliviousness. “There was nothing anyone could do to make her not like that; you do realise that, don't you?”

“Oh, stop being so pretentious; you're no psychiatrist.”

“Neither are you. Yet you refused to see what was right in front of you.”

“Meaning I don't share your hallucinations—”

“Hallucinations? Did I hallucinate Musgrave burning down? Did I hallucinate her burning down a psychiatric hospital, killing more than a dozen people _so that she could find out what it felt like?_”

“You can't know that. She died—”

“That was her reason for everything destructive she did. That and jealousy, possessiveness—” 

“You don't know what you're talking about.” His mother paused and made an effort to moderate her tone. “I can't—I just can't—” 

“Mummy, you must see—”

“No, _you_ must see, Mycroft. She was my little girl, my baby. I can't think of her as a monster.”

“She was both. She was a monster, even though we loved her. Lack of love couldn't have made her the way she was, even if she'd lacked it. But she didn't; she couldn't have been more loved. By all of us.”

His mother made a tired, dismissive wave in his direction, though she still refused to meet his eye. “You're twisting things up again. You've always been so self-serving.”

Mycroft saw that statement for what it was: the last desperate grab for control and clutching at tenuous arguments.

“Well, no one else in this family has ever had my interests in mind,” he snapped back, though he knew he shouldn't allow her to lead him off into irrelevancies.

Mycroft couldn't tell if his mother was going to slap him for the temerity of refusing to bow down to her. When she didn't he wondered if perhaps she didn't think him worth the effort anymore. Perhaps she simply couldn't get her head around the idea that it was possible to have loved Eurus while still accepting that she was a murderous psychopath. More likely she just wasn't capable of accepting that he might not be the soulless monster she thought he was, and that he might ever be right.

“Loving her does not mean absolving her of responsibility for what she did.” _There you go, Mummy. There's your opening, if you have the courage to say to my face what you've been saying behind my back for the last seven years._

To Mycroft's complete lack of surprise, all he got in exchange was an owlish look, and, “That's a rather self-serving attitude.”

“Only if one is predisposed to blame me for Eurus' actions,” Mycroft replied in quiet, silky tones that he hoped his mother recognised before she lashed out at him again. But if anything her expression hardened, and Mycroft felt his heart sink. He'd given her her chance and she'd squandered it. So be it.

“You have no idea what it's like to be the clever one—” (_I beg your pardon,_ he thought.) “—and being dismissed, set aside just because you're a girl. When Eurus was born, I swore I'd give her every chance to shine, to never dismiss her the way my parents—”

“So from the beginning, all of this has been about you and Rudy.” He failed to keep the disdain out of his voice. “All of it, going all the way—” He paused to fume for a moment. The triteness of it disheartened more than angered him. _So much for her supposed genius_. “I am not Rudy, and Eurus is not you. Nor Sherlock.”

“He'll use you.”

“I know.”

His mother was obviously perplexed that he'd agreed with a criticism of her brother, and Mycroft was relieved enough to leave behind discussions of Eurus now that he'd confirmed that his mother refused to be honest with him. He again flirted with the idea of confronting her, then decided he was done with fruitless wrangling. Another bollocking about his relationship with his uncle would be a blessed reprieve. “What's he been up to?” his mother asked cautiously, and if it had been anyone else, Mycroft would have thought she was afraid of the answer.

“Providing the latest in a long string of object lessons. A necessary one, regardless of the annoyance caused.”

“So, he's started trying to live through you. I knew that would happen.”

Mycroft shrugged, ignoring the lunacy of that statement. “What of it? Regardless of any ulterior motive, he does want me to fulfil my potential, and generally speaking acts accordingly.” Mycroft could tell his mother still wasn't able to ascribe even a halfway altruistic motive for any action of her brother's. “He wants to ensure I'm not—distracted. Or inadvertently side-tracked. We agree it's vital I remain focused for the next few years, at least.”

“How does that explain the girlfriend Elaine Rutherford told me about?”

Mycroft fumed for a second or two; _of course_ David had gone crying to his gorgon mother about Christina, and of course the gorgon had passed that information to her commanding officer.

“She was—a temporary necessity.”

“Your—beard, is that the term?”

Mycroft wondered which of the dipsomaniacs of the local WI had broadened his mother's mind with that concept, and what his mother had divulged to elicit it. “No, not—well, yes, but not in the way you think.”

“And what, pray tell, do I think?”

“I'm not gay, Mummy. Yes, I've had—experiences with boys. But girls, as well. I'm just—” Mycroft stared out the window, searching for the words to describe his inchoate feelings on the matter.

“Bisexual.”

“Yes, I suppose—” It was becoming increasingly obvious that the local WI was a lot more than jam and Jerusalem.

“And still no girlfriends. Or boyfriends. Or are you just hiding them from your family, too?”

“No, Mummy, there will be no girlfriends. Or boyfriends, for that matter.”

His mother pondered that revelation for a second or two before musing, “You enjoy sex, but not people.”

He froze for a split second. “That's—rather an apt characterisation,” he conceded. He paused for another pair of seconds to plot a path back to his original point. “It's not normal. And until I've made significant headway in my career, I can't appear not to be normal.”

“Yes, Rudy did rather take a leap off the deep end once he left Cambridge and went down to London. It cost him, and I suppose he regrets casting away all judgement. It was the sixties, though, and we were wrong about almost everything back then,” she mused with a remarkably low level of malice, all things considered.

Deciding to take advantage of the relative lack of hostilities on the Rudy front, Mycroft decided to push the boat out a little. “I do think he's always had our best interest at heart.”

His mother's expression told him he'd been precipitate, as it shifted back to its more usual barely restrained anger when her brother was the subject of conversation.

“He took away my child. He put her somewhere she wasn't safe. She's dead because of him. And you say this was _for our own good_?”

“She'd have kept trying to kill us until she succeeded, if he hadn't.”

“The fire was an accident.”

“Oh, for—” Mycroft bit off the expletives that were almost ejected out of his mouth by his frustration. “Now you're just disagreeing for the sake of being argumentative. I know you and Father knew there was something wrong, and I remember how afraid you were for her. She was self-harming, Mummy.” He was almost pleading now, which he thought repulsive, so forced himself to be calmer. “Even if she hadn't killed Victor, or burned Musgrave, she would have had to be sent away for her own sake.” He paused, but cut off the rebuttal he knew was coming. “She was always going to be beyond your help.”

While his mother chewed on her grievances, Mycroft pushed back at the inconvenient, horrifying memories of his visit to Sherrinford and Eurus' subterranean jail cell, and the machine gun-toting guards that he would never be able to tell his family about. _That_ burden he'd be carrying for the rest of his life.

“There was never any way in with you,” his mother said out of the blue and it took Mycroft a second to follow the non sequitur from Eurus' insanity to his supposed shortcomings. 

“Is there supposed to be some sort of meaning to that statement?”

“You were born—it was like you were fully formed. An infant-sized homunculus. Your mind was a closed world, with room for only one. You never—”

Mycroft was surprised to see something as mundane as hesitation on his mother's face. He wondered if she were so desperate or delusional as to try to manipulate him, at his age. Then he wondered if perhaps he was spending too much time with Rudy, for his thoughts to be heading in that direction.

“—you never seemed to have any time for us, your father and me. It's like you were a whole person, right from birth. Tom and I used to call you 'our little old man'. You reminded me so much of my father, and not just because you're the very image of him—”

“Was Grandfather Scott gay? Is that why you've always thought I am?” Mycroft interrupted, unable to set the question aside once it had appeared in his mind.

“You never seemed to need us,” his mother continued, airily drifting along, lost in memory. “Beyond the usual material things. You never wanted cuddles, or comfort when you hurt yourself, the way little children do. Then when Sherlock came along, he was such a sickly baby. Do you remember?” she asked, finally acknowledging him.

Mycroft nodded, hiding his anger that she'd ignored his question. He did remember how Sherlock's colicky cries had filled the house for months, and how nothing else had seemed to exist for his mother then. A memory arose out of his mind, summoned by her reminder: his mother, heavily pregnant with Eurus, carrying a wailing Sherlock as she paced, paced, paced around and around Musgrave. He remembered his fear at seeing his mother crying as she ranged through the house, rubbing Sherlock's back. It was the only time he recalled seeing his mother cry. 

Now, of course, he knew they were tears of frustration and exhaustion, but at the time he'd been afraid and a little disgusted at her “display”, which if it had been him he'd known even then would have earned a rebuke. Despite her assertions, his mother had never had much time for the few tears he'd shed as a child, and Mycroft had always been a fast learner.

“He was such a sweet boy, always happy.” His mother seemed bent on staying put in her obsessive romanticisation of past times. 

A part of Mycroft wanted to remind her of the reality—in fact, Sherlock had been a sickly, peevish, clingy child for his first five years—but he knew that doing so would just stoke the fires of her resentment and send the argument hurtling back along unproductive pathways. Instead, he watched as she slid into the mind-deadening balm of nostalgia and he knew there was nothing he could say that would ever force her to look reality in the eye. He wondered if there was any point even in advocating for proper medical and psychiatric treatment for Sherlock. After all, if his mother wasn't even able to recognise that her mass-murdering offspring was a psychopath, what hope was there that she'd acknowledge something as mundane as drug addiction as requiring professional intervention?

In the distance, he heard his father's car turning into the drive; his chance was over. His mother didn't seem to have heard it, lost as she was in her narcotic reveries. He took his coat from the peg and headed outside. Standing under the back porch, he took two deep, shivering breaths to calm himself. He didn't know what to do.

This was such a novel experience that he thought that under less fraught circumstances he might enjoy the sensation. Instead, it left him with a faint vertigo, an upset stomach and a headache. Through the door behind him he heard his parents' voices, though wasn't able to discern their words through the thick oak. In case his father got the idea to come drag him back inside, Mycroft set off through the garden to the wood. He'd been backed into a corner again, his hands effectively tied, caught between his parents' stubborn blindness and his own inability to just walk away from it all.

Sitting under the wind-whipped oak, Mycroft pulled his coat tighter over his chest and tucked his freezing hands in his armpits to warm them. He stared back down the pathway toward the house, hidden beyond trees that lined the curved pathway. He didn’t need to see the house to know what was going on inside: his father wandering the rooms searching for a purpose; his mother fuming in the kitchen, nursing her decades-long grudge against the universe for not acquiescing in her self-assessment as an unregarded genius; and Sherlock hiding from all of them, including himself, managing to create oblivion with whatever was at hand.

Mycroft knew the next setback could be terminal. After all his family had been through in the last fifteen years, they had no capacity left to absorb another blow. His mother’s instincts must have led her to unconsciously sense this as well, which was likely the source of much of her fear. But her response would only precipitate the disaster, not avert it.

Now that he’d reached full adulthood, Mycroft accepted that his role would be to find a way to keep that from happening. Regardless of how, exactly, it had all started to fall apart and why, and who might or might not have been responsible for any particular element of their situation, _he_ was the one who would have to hold the remaining pieces together. And no matter what criticisms his parents might lob his way, his ambitions, his ability to rise to a position of real power was the only way he would be able to shield their train wreck of a family in the future.

Was this love, he wondered as he listened to the grackles chuntering away in the trees above him. Was this the much-vaunted “sacrifice” poets claimed was the foundation of love? He’d never held poetry in any regard, nor self-sacrifice, so felt unqualified to judge. Not that doing exactly what he would have done on his own account anyway could be called a sacrifice, he recognised. But there was a certain satisfaction in killing multiple birds with one stone, and if nothing else, power always came in handy. You never knew when you might need it; it was the most valuable currency of all and, like wealth, never went out of fashion.

Mycroft heard leaves crunching on the path.

“They're arguing,” Sherlock mumbled as he dropped onto the bench next to Mycroft.

“What?” Their parents disagreeing in front of anyone was rare as eclipses; them _arguing_ was unprecedented in Mycroft's experience, and his shock must have shown.

“Yes, I know. What did you say to her? She was out for bear the moment we walked in the door.”

Mycroft shrugged and lied. “No idea. Does it matter what I say to her?”

“Good point.”

Mycroft pulled his cigarettes out of his jacket, and held the packet out to Sherlock.

“You're encouraging me to smoke, now?”

“Would telling you not to make a difference?”

Sherlock snorted. “No.”

“My new year's resolution was to learn to pick my battles.”

“You don't do resolutions.”

“Well, maybe my first resolution was to have new year's resolutions.”

“Now you're just being fatuous.”

Mycroft nodded, then lit his cigarette. “That is my assigned role within the family unit.” He pointed at himself. “Fatuous gasbag.” Then he pointed with his cigarette at Sherlock. “Wilful fuck-up.”

“A place for everyone and everyone in their place.”

Mycroft joined his brother in a snicker, then gave a contented little hum as he took another drag off his cigarette and wondered what it would be like if all three of them were there, and none of them were mad.

~ + ~

the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you read that right: 9/9, not 9/10. 
> 
> I had originally written an epilogue for this story, to act as a bridge between this one and my Unforgivable Things series; this story was always going to end with chapter 9. But I was never able to wrangle the epilogue into a state that didn't weaken this story, so I decided to cut it.


End file.
